


Gotham's Prodigal Son

by VigilantSycamore



Series: The Batman Saga [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman's Early Days, Crime Fighting, Long Halloween Influenced, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Organized Crime, Past Bruce Wayne/Rachel Dawes, Reconstruction, Reconstructive Fic, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne UST, They don't get together in this fic though, Transphobia, Two-Face Origin, Wayne Enterprises, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VigilantSycamore/pseuds/VigilantSycamore
Summary: Bruce Wayne is back in Gotham. The Batman is a hero. But it's not over yet. New enemies are appearing, old ones are still going strong, and Bruce still needs to take back his father's company. A hero's work is never done.





	1. Joke's On You

William Earle was ecstatic. His allies on the board of directors had just agreed to his plan: dissolve Wayne’s controlling stock and take the company public. That would be done during the board meeting on Thursday, less than a month before the stock exchange that would take the company public, which in turn would allow him to greatly increase the amount of the company’s common stock owned by him - preferred stock may be more valuable, but common stock has voting rights and if Earle could take control of the company, he’d ensure that it went in a direction that pleased his investors.

So with how things were going, it was understandable that Earle was grinning from ear to ear as he sat down on the couch in his penthouse and turned on the widescreen television. There was a glass coffee table between the couch and the wall-mounted TV.

His smile fell when he saw what was on the news.

“ _The prodigal son returns,_ ” the newsreader was saying. “ _Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s billionaire orphan, has returned to his home city after being missing for years and recently declared dead by William Earle, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises._ ”

Well _that_ ruined all of Earle’s plans.

The broadcast continued, showing Bruce’s response to a question about Earle’s management of the company (“his parents’ legacy,” the newsreader called it). “ _I’m sure Mr Earle is doing a great job; my parents trusted him, and they must have had a good reason for that.”_

No matter what Bruce’s thoughts on him were, this made things much more complicated for Earle. And just when he’d been about to…

Earle was so angry he flipped the coffee table, and the glass shattered on impact.

“ _Wayne declined to comment on the subject of his disappe-“_

Suddenly, static covered the screen. When it stopped, a pale man was grinning at Earle. He was wearing a purple suit and fedora and seemed to have green hair.

“ _Hi! I’m the Joker,_ ” the man said. “ _You may be wondering why your regularly scheduled programming has been replaced with my beautiful face… the answer is, I wanted to make an announcement._ ” The Joker licked his lips, then held up a photograph of a man with a goatee and dark glasses. “ _This is Henry Claridge. He’s alive right now… but…_ ” the Joker paused to take out a watch, _“in twenty-four hours from nnnow…_ ” The Joker leaned in closer. “ _He won’t be_.”

The Joker started laughing like a madman.

Then the television cut back to the newsreader, who now had a disturbed expression on his face.

/\\-^|^-/\

The Joker had made his threat in the evening. The next day, Henry Claridge did not leave his house at all, under the protection of his trusted bodyguard. And yet, the morning after that, when his housekeeper knocked on his door, there was no response. He found that odd - Henry was usually awake at this time. The housekeeper waited, knocked again, called Henry’s name, and eventually opened the bedroom door to check on him. Then he screamed.

Henry Claridge was lying in his bed, his face contorted in a horrific grin, and no life at all in his body.

/\\-^|^-/\

Detective Samuel Bradley Jr. was listing the CSI team’s findings to his boss. “Cause of death is poison, and whatever the poison _was_ it looks like Claridge ingested it. There’s no sign of forced entry, so Claridge must have been poisoned by someone who was already able to enter the apartment.”

“Good work Sam,” Sergeant Montoya nodded. “That gives us two suspects: the housekeeper, Otto Drexel, and the bodyguard, Brock Nelson.”

“I’ve already looked into both of them,” Sergeant Yin said. “Drexel had an alibi: he only entered the apartment in the morning, and the bodyguard testified that Drexel had no opportunity to slip Claridge the poison. As for Nelson, he’s not just Claridge’s employee. The two of them have been close friends since they were both in high school. I don’t think he would have killed Claridge.”

“So we’re left with no suspects?” Detective Bradley asked.

“And no motive,” Sergeant Bennet added. “I did a background check on Claridge and there’s nothing that would make someone want to kill him. He was a business owner, well-off but not exceptionally so, and he regularly volunteered at a homeless shelter, but other than that he’s stayed below the radar.”

“How are we supposed to tell Gordon that we haven’t come up with any leads?” Detective Bradley questioned.

“We go back to Gordon and tell him we haven’t come up with any leads,” Bennet replied. “That will tell him this perp is smart enough to cover his tracks. Then we keep looking until we do find a lead.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“ _Joker here,_ ” the pale man on the screen said. “ _I’m not done yet. Twenty-four hours from, oh, right about, uh, now… Jay Wilde will die. Jay, if it’s any consolation, at least you’ll go out with a smile!_ ”

The screen cut back to a rerun of ‘ _The Grey Ghost’_.

/\\-^|^-/\

“We need to call him.”

“Not yet. We can’t be seen as the police force that relies on a vigilante.”

“So what do we do, Jim?” the Commissioner asked. “Do you have any leads at all?”

“Nygma’s working on figuring out how the Joker’s hacking the broadcasts. When he figures it out, we’ll be able to trace the hack back to the Joker, or one of his accomplices.”

“So you’re telling me you _will_ have a lead, eventually. That’s not enough, Jim,” Essen said. “Henry Claridge is dead, Jay Wilde’s life is on the line, and God knows who’ll be next. Find me a lead before Wilde dies, or make the call.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Jay Wilde was dead.

“Tell me we have a lead,” Essen said to Gordon.

“Nygma’s figured out how the Joker is hijacking the broadcasts. The next time he tries it, we’ll be able to track him down.”

“Good. Make sure you bring this bastard in.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“ _It’s me again!_ ” the Joker laughed. “ _I’m not done yet. Who am I going to kill next? I bet you’re all dying to know… Sorry, poor choice of words. Hahahahaha!! Anyway, the next person to die will be Judge Leeson. Twenty-four hours from… now!_ ”

/\\-^|^-/\

The GCPD had tracked the Joker’s transmissions down to a run-down building in midtown. They’d broken the lock on the door and searched the building to find it abandoned. The Joker had fled and taken his equipment with him.

“We’ve got nothing,” Bullock concluded. “Jim, do you think it’s time?”

Gordon sighed. “I’ll call him.”

The Batman had sent Gordon a burner phone in case the GCPD ever needed the vigilante’s help. Gordon had been reluctant to use it because it might harm the GCPD’s image, but now…

/\\-^|^-/\

“Jim, tell me you’ve called him,” Essen demanded.

“I called him,” Gordon confirmed. “He’s on his way here and when he shows up we’ll show him what we’ve found and see what he makes of it.”

“Good. Judge Leeson came to the station asking for our protection. We’ve put him in one of our safehouses. Hopefully the Joker won’t get him too.”

“We’ll catch this guy,” Gordon assured her.

/\\-^|^-/\

“How did the Joker poison his victims?” Batman asked.

“We don’t know,” Montoya told him. “We’ve been able to figure out that the victims ingested the poison, but neither Claridge nor Wilde displayed any symptoms until shortly before their deaths. And we have no evidence that the Joker poisoned anything they ate the day before they died.”

“When you eliminate the impossible, all that remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” Batman said. “If the Joker is poisoning his victims but he couldn’t have poisoned them _after_ he announced their deaths, he must have poisoned them _before_ he announced their deaths.”

“Why would it take so long for the poison to take effect?” Bennet asked.

“I’m not sure… but one hypothesis would be that the Joker is using a binding agent of some sort to prevent the poison from killing the victim immediately.”

“It _does_ explain why we haven’t found any leads,” Yin said. “We’ll need to look into what the victims ate in the twenty-four hours before the Joker’s announcements. Restaurants, catering companies, anything linking them. And we need to send a team of medics to Judge Leeson.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The medics had explained the situation to Judge Leeson and were standing by in case the poison started to affect him. They also sampled his blood and the contents of his stomach and sent those to the GCPD. Those samples were now being studied to find out what poison the Joker was using.

Meanwhile, Detective Bradley had found a lead. “So, turns out that twelve hours _before_ the Joker announced each victim would die, that victim attended a function somewhere in the city,” he explained, “and each function had the same catering company. ‘ _Amuse Bouche’_. Seems the Joker wanted to spell it out for us.”

“You’ll need a warrant to bring them in for questioning,” Batman said, “but it will help us find the Joker. Good work.”

Sam wasn’t sure how to respond to praise from the famous vigilante. Eventually, he just decided to say, “…thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Batman said. “Now, once the tests come back we’ll know what the Joker used to make his poison, and possibly the binding agent. He has to be making the poison _somewhere_ \- if we can figure out where, that’s one more step towards taking him down.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“So let me get this straight,” Bullock said, “you guys _run_ this company and you didn’t notice that of the three functions you’ve catered since you started this company, one of the guests from each of the first two is dead, a guest from the third may die soon, and the same clown’s claiming credit for all three? That wasn’t suspicious to you at all?”

“No,” said Presley “Punch” Peterson.

“Really?” Bullock asked, still sceptical.

“My brother’s telling the truth, Sergeant,” Jen “Judy” Jeffers said. “We had nothing to do with no poison.”

At that moment, Montoya walked up to them grinning smugly and pulling a metal cart along behind her. On the cart was a vat of something. “Well then,” she said. “You won’t mind if we take a sample of _this_ stuff… just to prove it’s not poison. Will you?”

Punch and Judy shared a look.

“We’re better off co-operating,” Judy told her brother. “Besides, Jake’s a lawyer. He’ll get us out of this.”

“ _Right,_ ” Montoya said. “Well, Harvey, I’m gonna leave you with the British Seaside Duo here, while hand _this,_ ” she gestured to the vat, “in to forensics, and catch Gordon up on the investigation.”

“’Kay,” Bullock said. Then he realized what he’d just agreed to. “Wait, don’t!” he called after her. She was already ‘out of earshot’ (meaning she was ignoring Bullock). “Well, I hope you two are happy,” Bullock said to the siblings. “I just might miss happy hour because I’m making sure you don’t try to run away or anything like that.”

Meanwhile, Montoya was already talking to Gordon on the police radio. “We got the catering company. Any progress on the other end?”

“Actually, yes,” Gordon said. He sounded cheerful. “Our caped and cowled friend just came up with a list of places the Joker might be using to make this stuff. It looks a lot like the list of places we’ve been trying to tie to what’s left of the Red Hoods.”

“So the Joker’s working with them, huh? If he’s smart - and he is - his hideout would be the one piece of Red Hood real estate that’s trying the hardest to stop us from getting a search warrant.”

“Ace Chemicals,” Gordon agreed.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Nice office,” Batman said.

Slowly, the Joker turned around. “I was wondering when you’d show up. I take it you like the way I redecorated the place.”

Batman looked at the walls, now covered in purple laughter graffiti. He looked at the floor, where somebody had spilt a bucket of purple paint. And lastly he looked at the Joker’s desk, which was a bright and gaudy purple.

“Actually,” Batman said at last, “I was being sarcastic. I’ve seen _caves_ with better interior decoration than this.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” the Joker mocked. “Everyone’s a critic these days. ‘ _Your office looks horrible!’_ , ‘ _You’re a murderer!_ ’’, who cares? It’s all a joke in the end, isn’t it?”

“Two people died. A third one _might_ die. That’s not a joke.”

“Are you kidding? It’s hilarious!” The Joker started laughing.

Batman waited for him to stop and catch his breath. When the Joker did so, the Batman grinned.

“No,” he started, “what’s hilarious is that I put on a wire before I left the police station. They’ve been listening to this whole conversation, and given their response time they should show up right about… well, sometime soon anyway. The point is: I’ve been stalling you this whole time.”

The Joker frowned. “Oh, you’re a killjoy. I guess I’ll just have to kill _you_!”

The clown pulled a revolver out of his pants (no really), held it in his left hand and fired. Batman ducked, but no bullet came - only a red flag with the word “Bang!” handwritten on to it. The Joker pulled the trigger again, the flag was fired out of the gun and hit Batman’s chest, embedding itself in the body armour there. Batman retaliated, throwing a knife at the Joker’s right arm. The knife hit the clown’s bicep, and he instinctively clasped the wound with his left hand, dropping the gun in the process. Batman leapt over the desk and tackled the Joker to the ground.

To keep the clown down (heh), Batman twisted the Joker’s injured arm until his foe stopped fighting. Moments later, the GCPD arrived to take him into custody.

“This isn’t over, Batman!” the Joker said as a farewell. “You haven’t seen the last of me! Hahahahahahahaaa!”

/\\-^|^-/\

The day after the Joker was arrested, there was a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises.

“I’m just saying,” Magnus Thorpe explained, “with the prodigal son’s return, I think we should involve him in the running of the company. It’s what the boy’s father would have wanted.”

“Yes, Mr Thorpe, you’re right,” Earle said as he walked around the table. “But we’ve already established that what _Thomas Wayne_ would have wanted isn’t what’s best for this company. I can convince the boy to hand the reins to us. It’s better that way, he has no business experience at all.”

“Well then,” a new voice said, “I’m glad I’ll be learning on the job.” Bruce Wayne swaggered into the room and collapsed into Earle’s seat. “Do you mind rewinding? I only heard the ‘he has no business experience’ bit.” Earle tried to speak, but Bruce interrupted him. “Make it quick, though. I’ve got a party to plan. You know, to celebrate my homecoming. You’re all invited, by the way,” the prodigal son said to the board members.


	2. Wealth and Taste

**Gotham City, USA**

**Seventeen Years Ago**

Don Falcone did not like Captain Loeb.

The man was indulgent, hedonistic, vain, arrogant, greedy - everything a leader should not be.

Sitting at the same table, Falcone was disgusted as he watched Loeb make crude comments at the waitresses and preen all the while.

“You asked to see me for a reason,” Falcone said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t a question: nobody dared waste the mob boss’s time.

“Yeah,” Loeb said. “I got a problem, and I think you got the same problem too. The Commissioner. He doesn’t know how to play ball.”

Falcone knew this. Commissioner Barnes was famous for never compromising his morals or his commitment to the law. In a way, Falcone respected the man’s strong convictions, but Barnes was clearly a fool, refusing to accept that the law is neither justice nor perfect and justice is neither simple nor easy.

Not that Loeb cared.

Falcone knew how to read a man. Loeb didn’t have a problem with Barnes for his convictions or naïveté, he had a problem with Barnes because he coveted the man’s position and, like a child too young to understand the responsibilities of adults, likely assumed he’d be free to do as he wished if he was the Commissioner.

“You want me to kill him?” Don Falcone asked.

Loeb barked a laugh. “Exactly! And when he’s dead, I want you to back me for Commissioner. I’ll make sure to pay you back.”

Falcone knew what Loeb really meant. As long as he didn’t get in Loeb’s way and sent the occasional bribe the man’s way, he’d keep the police from interfering in the Falcone family’s business. And keeping the police from interfering meant bribery, blackmail, and possibly intimidation, with an exception made for those sadists and thugs who would all to readily help an organized crime syndicate.

“A good offer.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Loeb grinned. “I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

**Gotham City, USA**

**The Present Day**

“You wanna go!?” Loeb shouted, slamming his fists into the man’s face. “You wanna get nuts!?” His victim, the freak with the pale skin and green hair, just laughed. “Let’s get nuts!” Loeb shouted, making the freak laugh more.

The freak kept laughing as Loeb was grabbed by guards and carried off to solitary confinement. His nose was bent the wrong way, the bone had cracked and blood was dripping from his mouth and nostrils. One of his teeth was on the ground.

Good. That’s what he deserved, for calling Loeb crazy.

Well, Loeb did plead insanity to get off a more serious charge, but he didn’t realize he actually _would_ end up in Arkham’s psych ward.

/\\-^|^-/\

“So what are you going to do about Earle?” John asked.

“After our conversation, he’s expecting me to sell off my controlling stake,” Bruce said, “and if I don’t, it will ruin the whole ‘clueless billionaire’ façade too early. The deal we made was that I get to keep a 20% share, but the rest of my stake goes on the market. The problem is that _his_ stake will be 3% greater than mine…”

“He can have _you_ ousted from your own company,” John finished. “If you’re going to stop Earle from pulling one over on you, you’ll need allies… which is why you’re holding the party,” John realized.

Bruce nodded. “I’m inviting the whole board of directors, of course. I’m also inviting the company’s biggest stockholders. Then there are Coleman Reese - the managing partner of the company’s law firm - and Jacob Kane, a military contractor ( _and_ my uncle). Mayor Hayes, DA Finch, Commissioner Essen-“

“I’m going to stop you right there,” John said. “Keep that guest list, but there’s another thing you can get out of that party: reconnect with people.”

Bruce quirked and eyebrow under his cowl. “What do you mean?”

“You had a life before you left. I’m guessing there were people in that life who didn’t live with you in Wayne Manor. It’s none of my damn business, but you should invite _them_ too.”

John had a point. “I’ll consider it,” said Bruce.

/\\-^|^-/\

“If it isn’t the one and only Bruce Wayne,” Ethan said. “What are _you_ doing _here_ , of all places?”

‘Here’ being the GCPD precinct.

“I’ve come to turn myself in,” Bruce said. “ _I_ am the Batman.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds before they both started laughing.

“Good one, Bruce,” Ethan said.

“It’s been a long time,” Bruce said. “I figured I should open with a joke.”

“So why are you _really_ here?”

“This Saturday, I’m holding a party - you know, to celebrate my return to Gotham,” Bruce said. “I came here to invite you - if you want to come,” Bruce said as he handed his friend an invitation.

“Thanks man,” Ethan said. “I’ll be there.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The next stop for Bruce was the DA’s office. This was different to inviting Ethan. He and Bruce had grown apart in the years following...

The point is, they’d lost contact, but that was it. Bruce and Rachel, on the other hand, had not parted on good terms. Bruce was fairly certain now that he had been to blame for that. His guilt made him hesitate before walking into the building.

When he finally did enter, Bruce walked straight towards Finch’s office.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Carl, Bruce Wayne’s here to see you,” Linda Page said over the intercom.

Finch was surprised. He hadn’t expected Wayne to visit the DA’s office unannounced and they certainly didn’t have a meeting scheduled. His curiosity was peaked. “Send him in,” he said.

Bruce Wayne opened the door and walked into Finch’s office. “Thanks for letting me in,” Bruce said.

“If the one and only Bruce Wayne visits my office, I’m not going to turn him away,” Finch pointed out. “What can I help you with?”

“I’ve decided to hold a party celebrating my return to Gotham. I figured it would be a good idea to invite a few public servants. You, the Commissioner, and the Mayor, to be specific.”

“Well, I’d be honoured,” Finch said. “Although I have to know: is that the only reason you’re here, or is it also that you used to date ADA Dawes?”

Bruce looked away. “Rachel and I have a history,” Bruce said. “I was… I’m not going to beat around the bush, I was an awful boyfriend. So yes, part of the reason I came here was to apologise to her.”

Finch pressed the intercom button. “Linda, send Rachel in here.”

“Will do, Carl,” Linda said over the intercom.

“Thank you, Linda,” Finch said before taking his finger off the button. “And now we wait.”

Bruce nodded, then they sat in silence as the clock on the wall ticked. “’The Audacity of Hope’,” he read from Finch’s bookshelf. “It’s a good book.”

“I know,” Finch said. “It used to be 1984 on that shelf, but I swapped it out for something more optimistic.”

“Right, I heard you’d developed a new lease on life.”

“More of a mortgage, really,” Finch joked. Bruce laughed.

“Carl, Rachel’s here,” Linda said.

“Send her in,” Finch replied.

Rachel opened the door and walked into the office. “Linda said you asked for-“ she began, but stopped when she saw Bruce.

Bruce stood up and faced her. “Rachel,” he said. “I want to apologise. I shut you out, and that wasn’t fair on you, and I should have been a better boyfriend - hell, I should have been a better _friend_.”

“Yes,” Rachel said coldly. “You should have.”

“I’m not asking you to take me back,” Bruce said. “I don’t see why you would. I just want to try to make things right.”

“You can start by leaving,” she told him.

Bruce nodded as he walked out the door. He stopped, turned to Rachel again and said, “I’m sorry, Rachel.” Then he left.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Just sign here,” Earle said, “and then it will be done.”

Bruce signed the paperwork on the dotted line. “And now it goes on the market?”

“You’re starting to catch on,” Earle pointed to Bruce with a grin. “This really is the best thing for our company. Your father would be proud of you, Bruce.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Wayne Manor was a patchwork mansion: it had a history of being renovated or rebuilt, and the varied architectural styles showed. The exterior of the east and west wings were mainly Pinkneyan, with granite arches and demonic statues, whereas the main part of the mansion, as well as most of the interiors, had a neoclassical style. Here and there, there were modernist touches like glass walls. This was the result of nine generations of existence.

And in the modern day, the house only recently welcomed back its most recent owner. For more than five years, it had been left in the care of a minimal staff: a butler, a housekeeper, and a mechanic. Now, for the first time since Thomas and Martha Wayne were alive, the house was full of people.

The party was taking place in the grand hall - the room was on the first floor, but the ceiling was two storeys up. Two staircases on opposite sides of the room led up onto the second floor, which made a U-shape around the grand hall. The floor featured a circular mosaic as part of the neoclassical style, and there were columns reaching up towards the high ceiling.

There was a jazz band playing - mostly from a list of songs Alfred had selected on Bruce’s behalf, but they were also taking requests - and an open bar with Alfred as the bartender.

/\\-^|^-/\

A dark skinned man in a two-piece suit walked up to Bruce. “Mr Wayne,” he said, holding out his hand, “I hope you’re enjoying being back in Gotham.”

“Well, the scotch is fantastic,” Bruce replied, shaking hands with the man. “But please, call me Bruce, Mr…”

“Sid Bunderslaw,” the man introduced himself. “I’m on the board of directors at Wayne Enterprises.”

Of course, Bruce already knew this. But Bunderslaw didn’t _know_ he knew. And - as an educated guess - Bruce would say he was here to gain some goodwill with the man who owned a controlling share in the company _and_ had his name on the building. “Oh? How’s my father’s company doing these days? Earle just told me about profit margins and… some other financial things… but, well…”

“He’s running your company and you want to know if he’s being honest with you or just covering his ass,” Bunderslaw guessed. “Well, if anyone asks, this conversation never happened, but he’s been prioritising munitions at the expense of the other divisions.”

Bruce feigned an expression of mild surprise, but he actually knew this already. He’d read up on Earle, and on Bunderslaw too. It seemed his research had paid off - this conversation was going exactly as he’d expected it too. Bunderslaw was probably going to bring up Bruce’s father next.

“It’s not what your father would have wanted.”

There it is. “What would you do?” Bruce asked.

“Are you asking me what I’d do if I was in charge, and not Earle?”

Bruce nodded.

“I’d focus more on pharmaceuticals and IT. Those divisions are the future, and they make for better PR. But that’s not going to happen any time soon.”

“…Well. It might happen if the board votes him out.”

“It’s not that simple. Earle’s got a 23% common share in the company. His allies make up another 11% altogether. I’ve only got 4%, and I’m the third-biggest shareholder, after you and Earle. _You_ could probably get it done, though.”

“I don’t have a controlling stake anymore,” Bruce admitted. “Earle got me to sell off part of it, so now I only have a 20% share.”

Bunderslaw’s eyes went wide. “That’s risky,” he said. “Earle could buy a controlling stake now.”

“He wouldn’t do that. It would harm the profit margin.”

“Is that what he told you to get you to sell your stake off in the first place? Look, even if Earle won’t buy it up directly, he could still use shell corporations to build up his stake. He doesn’t even need 31% - technically, he’d be able to make decisions unanimously with just a 45% share as long as nobody else owns more than 50% of the stock.”

“Do you think he has any shell corporations?” Bruce asked.

“ _Every_ rich person in Gotham has shell corporations, Bruce. Just ask Cobblepot.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Mr Cobblepot, I believe?”

The short, beak-nosed man spun around. “Mr Wayne! To what do I owe this honour?”

Bruce smiled. “I was told you can tell me about _shell corporations_?”

Cobblepot’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to know that? You’re not planning to launder money, are you?” The tips of his lips curled - he was making a joke.

Bruce laughed, and Cobblepot laughed too. When he laughed, Cobblepot sounded like a duck.

“No,” Bruce said, “it’s more to do with my father’s company.”

“You sold off your stake, didn’t you?” Cobblepot guessed. “And you want to know if anyone could use shell corporations to buy it up and take over.”

“Exactly. So, what can you tell me?”

“Well, the thing about a shell corporation is that it doesn’t actually _do_ anything: there’s no business activity and no significant assets. And you’d need a legitimate reason to set one up if you don’t want to attract unwanted attention: offshoring work and profits to set up tax havens is the main one. That should help you when you’re trying to spot one.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said with a smile. “Oh, one more thing: what should I expect someone to do if they _are_ trying to take over my company?”

“Well, they’d want to get ahead of everyone else, so they’d probably start buying it up as soon as they can. That said, there’s a stock exchange coming up. Even if they manage to get rid of you, you can put together a controlling stake again there, so they wouldn’t make a move against you until after it was over.”

Just as Bruce thought.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Bruce!” Jacob Kane greeted his nephew. “Welcome back to Gotham, kid. Where’ve you been all these years?”

“Pretty much everywhere but this continent,” Bruce shrugged. “You know how it is when you’re rich, young and impulsive: just gotta see the world.”

“Kid, you sound just like your mother. And me, come to think of it.”

“You?” Bruce said sceptically. “ _Really_?”

“Why do you think I joined the army as soon as I turned seventeen?”

“I was under the impression that you did it out of intense patriotism.”

Jacob laughed. “Nah, they had to beat that into me in boot camp. Right after they beat the privilege _out_ of me.”

“And there I was thinking it was genetic. Where is Kate anyway?”

“She’s in Qurac right now. It’s her fourth year of active service.”

“You should be proud.”

“I am, Bruce. I am.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce talked to lots of other guests throughout the night. Coleman Reese, the managing partner of the law firm where Wayne Enterprises was a client, was standoffish but willing to help Bruce out in the future. Hammond Veranda, a real estate mogul who owned a great deal of preferred stock, was keen to be photographed _with_ Bruce, but didn’t actually tell him anything useful.

Bruce could tell that Mayor Taylor Hayes and Commissioner Sarah Essen both distrusted him, even if they hid it well. Finch, on the other hand, was excited to have Bruce on his side - mainly because Bruce could fund Finch’s re-election campaign, but that’s beside the point.

Bruce was about to leave the party - he’d gotten all he needed - when he saw her.

She was about Bruce’s height. She had dark skin and black, curly hair that went down to her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing emerald green. She had dark purple lipstick and was wearing a dark purple dress with a slit down the side, black knee-height leather boots (with high heels, which only further emphasized her height).

She walked - _swaggered_ would be the more appropriate term - towards the open bar and ordered a Bacardi on the rocks.

Bruce didn’t know _why_ he was suddenly so focused on one person, but he decided to take a seat next to her anyway. He sat down and asked Alfred for a single malt scotch.

“You’re not getting lucky,” she said as soon as Alfred put both their drinks in front of them.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a billionaire playboy,” she told him as if that explained everything.

“I object to that description,” Bruce said.

“You drove a Porsche into a river.”

“I was fifteen and that was _because_ of how annoying billionaire playboys and other rich people can get when you’re expected to go to the same events as they are. Anyway, I’m not expecting to ‘get lucky.’”

The woman smirked. She didn’t believe him. “So you sat down next to me just to say hello.”

“Maybe I did,” Bruce said as he held out his hand. “Bruce Wayne. And you are?”

“Selina Kyle,” she said as she shook his hand. “If you find these people annoying, why invite them here? It’s _your_ party.”

“Because, unfortunately, I am one of them. Which means I need to have connections, because once the sharks start circling I might as well disappear again. What about you? You seem to like them even less than I do, and yet you’re here.”

“You’re a good judge of character,” Selina remarked. “I bought an art gallery and I’m looking for customers. Most of the one percent will buy anything as long as they can be pretentious about _having_ it.”

“That _is_ true,” Bruce admitted. “The guy whose Porsche I drove into the river didn’t even take it out of the garage in the fifteen years he’d owned it. Is that really the whole reason, though?”

Selina laughed. “What, do you think that I found out the prodigal son had returned and I just _had_ to see you in person?”

“You said it, not me,” Bruce smirked. “So, what do you think of the ‘prodigal son’?”

Selina rolled her eyes. “I think he’s… not as bad as I expected.”

“’Bad’ as in ‘spoilt’ or ‘bad’ as in ‘douchey’?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘bad’ as in ‘boring’.”

At that moment, the band started playing a new song - _The Love Cats_ , by the Cure.

“Did you tell them to play this?” Selina asked.

“No, must be a request someone put in,” Bruce replied.

“Well it’s a good thing they did,” Selina said, grinning. “I _love_ this song.”

“In that case,” Bruce began as he stood up. “May I have this dance?”

“I told you, you’re not getting lucky,” Selina said as she stood up too.

“I know,” Bruce said. “But if I’m going to have to dance with someone sooner or later - and I am - I’d rather dance with someone I enjoy talking to.”

At this point, they were both walking away from the bar.

“There are more charming ways to get someone to dance with you,” Selina pointed out. “But you do have a point.”

They were on the dance floor now. They stepped closer to each other.

“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Bruce said. He took her right hand in his left and placed his right hand on their back. As they started to move in time with the music, Bruce asked Selina, “So, where is this art gallery?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce and Selina danced until the end of the song, then stepped apart. They talked for a while longer and Bruce introduced Selina to Ethan. The two of them hit it off, but eventually they both had to leave - Selina’s roommate called her asking for a lift home from a nightclub (“What do you mean you don’t have money for a cab?”) and Ethan got a call from Gordon about a double homicide (“What kind of killer leaves a riddle?”). Now Bruce was on his own again.

Once again, Bruce made his way to the exit, but a muscular woman in an Italian suit stepped in front of him. “Bruce Wayne?” she asked.

“That would be me,” Bruce answered. “And you are?”

“Sofia Gigante. My father sent me to give you this,” she said as she handed Bruce a card.

Bruce read the card. “Your father is inviting me to the wedding of Romano Vitti and Victoria Maroni?”

“It’s only fitting that he’s in charge of the invitations. He’s the most respected man in Gotham _and_ the grandfather of the groom.”

“Grandfather of… your father’s Carmine Falcone,” Bruce ‘realized’. “I apologize, but I’ll have to decline the invitation.”

“People don’t just _decline_ an invitation from my father,” Gigante said. “I’ll let you think it through. Right now though? I don’t think you want that reporter to see you talking to a career criminal.”

Sofia Gigante walked away while Bruce scanned the room for the reporter. He spotted the man quickly enough - who even _wears_ light brown trenchcoats anyway? - but unfortunately the man also spotted him.

“Mr Wayne!” the reporter called, running towards Bruce. “I’m Al Knox, with the Gotham Gazette, I’d like to ask you some-“

“Not interested,” Bruce said as he walked away.

Knox tried to follow, but Wayne lost him in the crowd. “Dick,” Knox said under his breath when he figured the billionaire was out of earshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your thoughts in the comments!


	3. Riddle Me This

Selina was wearing a leather jacket, a purple t-shirt with a picture of Isaac Crowe and ‘ _Fortunate Son_ ´ printed over the musician’s face in a shaky font - Brush Script M7, possibly – and black jeans. Her hair was just as wild as it had been at the party, but now it wasn’t an anomalous feature of an otherwise classy appearance. That wild hairstyle perfectly complemented an outfit that eschewed classiness and promoted a politically charged anti-authoritarian album.

Bruce, on the other hand, was wearing a bomber jacket, a blue button-up shirt with the top three buttons undone, and slim fitting trousers. He’d made sure to leave his hair _slightly_ unkempt to keep up appearances as the city’s resident ‘bad boy’. The unkempt hair, the undone buttons, a bomber jacket instead of a suit jacket – it all combined to spell out that Bruce Wayne didn’t care much for looking professional, and didn’t need to.

Really, if they wanted to, they could both have been fashion models.

“Interesting collection,” Bruce said to Selina as he walked up behind her. When he was standing to her left, he turned his head and asked, “Why did you put the Perez next to the Ross?”

“The Perez is _Crisis on Earth_ and the Ross is _Our Kingdom_. Both paintings deal with the global situation as the Cold War was ending, but Perez made _Crisis on Earth_ when the Cold War was still happening. Ross made _Our Kingdom_ when it was already over. I figured it would be interesting to juxtapose the different perspectives.”

“It’s certainly an interesting commentary on your part – on how quickly expectations can change. Plus there’s the contrast between their art styles – Perez’s detailed backgrounds, Ross’s realistic imagery. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Put Lee’s _Hush Planet Earth_ after _Our Kingdom_. Similar themes are involved, but Lee has yet another perspective and a third art style.”

“I might do that,” Selina said as she smiled. “Thanks. You know, you’re the first person to actually ask me a question about why I put those two together? Most people just want to know the price.”

“Well, most people just want to be able to say they own an expensive painting by a household name.”

“And you’re here for the art?”

“What can I say? I like to get to know the masterpieces,” Bruce said as he grinned. “So, tell me more about yourself?”

“I can’t tell if that was smooth or cliché,” Selina said, holding back a laugh. “But it doesn’t matter, because there’s no way I’m making it that easy for you.”

“Alright,” Bruce shrugged. “I’m assuming you’re a fan of Isaac Crowe.” He pointed to her shirt to justify his guess.

“I have every album he released since he went solo,” Selina said. “I’m a fan.”

“Isn’t it kind of… off-putting to the clientele? Most of them are the embodiment of the hedonistic one percent and/or white privilege. You’re wearing a t-shirt of the album that’s basically two fingers up to them.”

“ _Two_ fingers?”

“My butler is British. I’ve picked a few things up.”

“Well, at any rate, _the point_ is to be off-putting,” Selina explained. “Keeps them on their toes. Speaking of which…” Selina trailed off, as the classical music stopped and was replaced by ‘ _The American Elite’_. “You can actually see them flinch when Crowe calls out their profession,” Selina said. “The bankers are the most fun to watch.”

“…You’re not fond of the rich, are you?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Selina said. “Unless you’re one of those people who could fix half the cities problems if they tried, but can’t be bothered.”

“I know. Most of us are assholes anyway.”

“You’re not fond of the rich either, are you?”

“’Oh look, there’s that poor billionaire orphan boy, let’s get these reporters to take a photo of us with him, it’ll be fantastic PR’” Bruce quoted. “Those are the exact words I overheard once.”

“Damn. Is that why you stole the Porsche?”

“You’re not getting to know the story behind the Porsche that easily,” Bruce said.

“Oh?” Selina smirked ‘innocently’. “There’s a _story_ , is there?”

“Yep. Just like I’m sure there’s a story behind how you got into my party when you weren’t on the guest list. I checked,” he shrugged.

Selina laughed. “Oh, that’s easy: start talking to someone who _is_ invited, walk in with them, then act like you’re supposed to be there for the rest of the night. Even if they said they’d come alone, most people don’t care as long as the liar’s important enough.”

“That explains it,” Bruce said. “Speaking of parties, guess who got invited to a mafia wedding after you left.”

“You?”

Bruce nodded.

“No way! How in the… how? You? How?”

“Seems Falcone took an interest in the prodigal son. Would you be interested in going with me?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” Selina said. “Call me later and I’ll tell you what I decide.”

“How? I don’t have your number.”

“Don’t you?” Selina smirked as she walked away.

Bruce checked his phone. Huh. Selina’s name, in the contact list _and_ his speed dial. “How in the… how?” Bruce wondered.

/\\-^|^-/\

“What’ve we got?” Bullock asked.

“Two vics – male and female, both seventeen,” Jim began. “They were shot and killed in the back seat of the boy’s car while they were in the park. Their names are Billie Sprang and Richard Milton. Yin’s talking to their parents right now.”

“Any leads on who killed them?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jim sighed. “The killer left no prints, no hair, blood, or any other DNA evidence, and forensics can’t trace the bullets. The one thing we _do_ have is this,” Jim said as he showed Bullock a photograph of what had been spray-painted on the car’s bonnet.

Four lines of symbols, some clustered together and others with spaces in between. At the end of the fourth mark was the one thing not encoded: a question mark.

“Jim, if this is what I think it is then we _do_ have a lead,” Bullock said.

“It’s not him,” Gordon answered. “I know it.”

“Maybe,” Bullock acknowledged. “I still think you shouldn’t trust him. But even if he’s not our guy, he could help us solve it.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Arthur Brown had been surprised to see Jim, but happy. The African American man invited Jim inside and introduced the lieutenant to Arthur’s husband Chris and three-year-old their daughter Stephanie. After catching up, Jim asked to speak to Arthur in private, so Chris and Stephanie left them in the kitchen.

Arthur took off his glasses and wiped them with the left lapel of his button-up shirt. “So,” he said nervously. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Jim sighed. “Arthur, I’m afraid this isn’t just a social call,” he admitted. “I need your opinion on a case.”

“I told you I was done with that,” Arthur protested.

“This isn’t just any case, Arthur. There was a cypher left at the scene.”

Arthur frowned. “You don’t think _I_ had anything to do with this, do you? Jim, my life was _hell_ while I was in Blackgate. And after I got out? _Nobody_ wants to employ an ex-con. Black ex-cons have it even harder. You always hear people talking about how far society’s come since the sixties, but I know why every potential employer thinks I’m about to go back to crime.” He laughed bitterly. “It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nobody wants to give you a job because they’ll think you’ll commit a crime, so you have no choice but to commit a crime. But I am _done_ with being the Cluemaster, Jim. I can’t go back to prison! I’m married now, and I have a daughter. Why on Earth would I risk that?”

“I _don’t_ think you did this, Arthur,” Jim reassured him. “But I think you could help us out. Please, just… take a look at the cypher. See what you make of it.”

Arthur sighed. “All right, I’ll look.” He held out his hand and Jim handed him a copy of the case file. Arthur took a long look at a photograph of the cypher.

“It’s a substitution cypher,” he remarked at last. “There’s one symbol that appears on its own three times: beginning of the second line, middle of the third line, and end of the fourth line, before the question mark. If we assume that the cypher’s in English, then it could either be ‘a’ or ‘I’, and I've never heard of a sentence ending with 'a'. We can substitute any instances of that symbol for the letter ‘I’ to work out the whole message, bit by bit.”

“And what is that message?”

“’ _Zero and one,_ ’” Arthur began reading, “’ _I divide the world, but I bring friends to those who were alone. What am I?_ ”

“A riddle,” Jim said.

Arthur nodded. “It was pretty obvious that that’s what it would be. There was a reason why the killer kept the question mark a question mark.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The west wing of Wayne Manor perfectly highlighted the mixture of architectural styles in the house. The exterior was mainly Pinkneyan in style, with granite statues and ominous arches, having been designed by the man himself after he was commissioned by Solomon Wayne. The west and east wings were originally built to house the staff of the house – Charles Wayne had been a slave owner and when his son Solomon inherited the manor, he freed the slaves and gave them the option to keep working in Wayne Manor under much better conditions than before, including humane housing.

Although the east wing had a Pinkneyan interior as well, the west wing was renovated by Solomon’s own son, just like the main house, which was rebuilt entirely. Alan Wayne had done everything in his power to erase his grandfather’s legacy. It is widely believed that he was a member of the Underground Railroad, and one theory is that redoing the interior of the west wing in a neoclassical style was his way of discretely creating secret passages in that part of the house.

Four generations later, Thomas Wayne had a modernist architect renovate the house again, resulting in the creation of glass walls in several sections of the house, including the west wing.

Hence, the mixture of Pinkneyanism, neoclassicism, and postmodernism in the west wing.

One of the rooms in the west wing was the study, and that was where Bruce Wayne now sat in front of the ebony wood coffee table while the electric fireplace at the far wall crackled. The curtains were drawn so nobody could see him even if they were hiding in the Wayne gardens in the middle of the night. Bruce could hear the rain rapping on the glass. For once, the overcast sky had delivered on its promise.

But musing on the weather wasn’t the point, he had work to do.

“It’s past midnight and you’re not patrolling tonight,” Alfred said. Bruce hadn’t heard him come in. “Go to sleep.”

“This is _important_ , Alfred.”

“So is sleep. What are you doing, anyway?”

“Two teenagers have been killed and I’m trying to figure out who did it. The killer left a cypher, so I’ve been comparing newspaper pictures to get an idea of what the whole thing looks like and solve it, and I think I figured it out: it’s a riddle about computers.”

“Okay,” Alfred nodded, “but you _could_ have called Gordon and asked if he wanted help on the case, then if he said yes, asked to see the cypher for yourself. You did _not_ have to make it this complicated.”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“… I’m Batman?”

“That’s not a reason, and you know it. Go to sleep, Bruce.”

“Not yet,” Bruce protested. “I still haven’t figured out what to do if sewer people rig the mayoral elections.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“’ _Zero and one’_ ” Bullock repeated. “Those are the binary numbers.”

“And the second and third lines seem to describe the internet,” Montoya added.

“The internet. That’s the answer to the riddle,” Bennet said. “I’d say our perp’s going to hack something.”

“That’s a drastic shift in MO,” Yin pointed out. “Maybe they’re going to kill an internet celebrity?”

“Both likely possibilities,” Gordon said. “So let’s make sure our bases are covered. If he _is_ going to kill an internet celebrity, then the most likely target is Ted Kord, since he’s in Gotham for the week. Yin, keep an eye on Kord and make sure nobody attacks him.”

“You can count on me, Lieutenant,” Yin said.

“As for the hack,” Gordon continued, “our perp mentioned internet communities so that might be part of their plan. Bennet, I want you to monitor the messageboards. Anonymous, Everywhere, Enigma, and any other hacktivist group.”

“On it,” Bennet nodded.

/\\-^|^-/\

“The Riddler strikes again,” Bennet announced, “and it’s _not_ murder.”

“I’ll tell Yin,” Bullock said.

“’The Riddler’?” Montoya questioned.

“It’s what the media’s calling him.”

“I think it sounds cool,” Bradley chimed in. “So if it’s not murder, what is it?”

“Somebody hacked into AbboTech’s server. Leaked employee records onto Enigma, made all of AbboTech’s screens display question marks, and printed out _this_ cypher,” Bennet said as he showed them a copy of the cypher. This one had five lines, a comma and a question mark that weren’t encoded, and a series of symbols almost all of which didn’t match the previous cypher. “So let’s figure this one out.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Gordon’s phone started ringing, so he picked up the call. “Gordon here.”

“ _Lieutenant Gordon_ ,” the distorted voice said.

Oh. Gordon hadn’t noticed _which_ phone was ringing, or that the Caller ID just said ‘[Unknown Number]’.

“Batman. Good to hear from you again.”

“ _I’d like to see the second cypher used by the Riddler. I think you could use my input on this case._ ”

“Look, I’m glad you’re doing what you’re doing, even if it doesn’t make us look good, so I’ll show you the cypher just to find out what you make of it. When can you be here?”

“I already am,” Batman said.

Jim spun around to face the costumed man. “You really have a thing for dramatic entrances, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, I wear an animal costume to fight crime.”

Gordon shrugged and showed Batman the copy of the cypher in the case file on his desk. “What do you think?”

“There’s a two-letter word that appears twice, and another two letter word that starts with the same letter. Not that many options for what that could be, and the most likely combination is ‘me’ and ‘my’, followed by ‘at’ and ‘an’. Whatever it is, we end up with three letters we know, which we can use to work out the rest of the cypher. The only option that produces something that makes sense is that the word that appears twice is ‘me’ and the other word is ‘my’. From that, we can work out that the fully cypher is...”

/\\-^|^-/\

“This is the second riddle,” Gordon said, pointing at a paragraph projected onto the whiteboard. It read:

 ‘ _Charcoal, embers, and ashes_

_And it’s all down to me_

_I bring scorched desolation_

_You would be wise to fear me_

_What’s my name?’_

“We believe that the answer to this riddle is ‘fire’, which indicates that the Riddler’s next crime will be arson,” he continued.

“Arsonists tend to commit their crimes so they can watch the chaos they create,” Montoya took over, “it’s an adrenaline rush for them.”

“The Riddler’s first crime that we know of involved killing two teenagers in their car, and spray-painting a calling card _onto_ the car, evocative of the Zodiac Killer,” Yin added, “which suggests that they see themselves as similar to that particular criminal.”

“The Zodiac Killer showed signs of narcissism, so we can figure that the same applies to this criminal,” Bennet said, “which means that they’ll probably try to insert themselves into the investigation at some point.”

“We know they’re connected to Enigma, so they might try to use that website to do so,” Bullock said. “Your job,” he said to the cybercrime department, “is to figure out who leaked those employee records – whether it’s the Riddler or an accomplice.”

“In the meantime, we’ll be on the lookout for any suspicious fires that match the MO,” Gordon concluded.

“Lieutenant Gordon?” Edward Nygma spoke up. “I think you’d like to know, your profile of the Riddler as a narcissist is wrong.”

“Nygma, I think we know a _little_ bit more about psychology than you do,” Bullock said.

“Bullock, let him speak,” Gordon said. Then to Nygma, “You don’t think the Riddler is a narcissist?”

“Look at how he employs forensic countermeasures and the cyphers he creates. He’s a genius,” Nygma said as if that explained everything. “It’s not narcissism if you _really are_ the smartest person in the room.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You’ll never believe this,” Montoya said. “The Riddler has struck again – but it wasn’t arson.”

“So the riddle was lying?” Yin asked.

“Nope. Fire _was_ involved, but all the Riddler did was pull a fire alarm at a mall and graffiti the wall with another cypher. I think he screwed up this time, though: we found a can of green spray paint below the fire alarm with a partial print on it.”

“Try to find a match,” Gordon said. “In the meantime, show us the cypher. We’ll see if we can figure it out.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Something odd,” Bullock said. “Cyphers one and two had a few symbols that were the same and stood for the same letters. And there are a few symbols in cypher three that were in cypher two. If they also mean the same thing, then that makes our job a _lot_ easier.”

“Good work, Bullock,” Gordon said. “See where that gets you.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You need to compare all three riddles.”

Jim almost jumped out of his skin, while Bullock cursed. “That’s rude, you know,” Jim told Batman. “Sneaking up on people like that.”

“So?” Batman asked. “Anyway, I’ve solved the cypher. The riddle is ‘ _I gave you three clues. Three in the first, three in the last, one throughout and all in the middle. Now put them together._ ’”

“The cyphers have certain symbols in common,” Bullock guessed. “I already noticed that. Cyphers one and two use the same symbols for ‘e’, ‘n’, ‘a’, and ‘s’ – that’s the order in the first one - and if your solution is right-“

“It is,” Batman interrupted.

Bullock glared at Batman, then continued talking. “… if it is, then cyphers two and three have ‘h’, ‘t’, ‘o’, and ‘n’ in common. That’s the order in the third one. Three in the first, three in the last, one throughout and all in the middle.”

“E-n-a-s, h-t-o-n?” Jim wondered. “That could be ‘E Nashton’ or ‘EN Ashton,’ but I don’t think there are any other possibilities. We have to find whoever or whatever that is.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“I found E. Nashton,” Yin said. “His full name is _Edward_ Nashton. Born in Gotham, but spent most of his life in Metropolis. He has a few priors, mainly rigging carnival games and that kind of thing, but after his father died eight years ago, he changed his name.” Yin pulled up a photograph of Nashton on the computer screen.

Everybody recognised the man in the photograph. “Edward Nygma,” Jim said.

“Okay… but we can’t just arrest Nygma based on a riddle,” Bullock pointed out. “We need more evidence.”

Bennet entered the room. “We got a match on the partial print,” he said. “It’s Edward Nygma’s.”

Montoya looked at Bennet, then back at Bullock. Then back at Bennet. And then back at Bullock. Finally she said, “Well _that_ was convenient.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Jim, Harvey,” Edward welcomed them into his small apartment. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell us where you were when those crimes were committed,” Bullock said.

Edward stepped back. “You think _I_ did this?”

“I don’t know _what_ to think, Edward,” Jim said calmly. “But the partial print at the last crime scene matched _yours_ , and the third riddle led us to another clue, hidden in all three: your name. Your original name anyway.”

“And now I’m a suspect,” Nygma concluded. He stepped towards Jim. “Well, then,” Nygma hissed, “I guess you’ll have to arrest me. Because I had nothing to do with this, and I’m not telling you _a thing_ that you could use against me in court.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Mr Nygma, I’m your attorney,” Jake Jeffords said as he walked into the room. “I have good news for you: this is an easy win for us.”

“What do you mean?” Nygma asked.

“I mean, they’ve barely got anything on you. Riddles aren’t submissible in court and a partial print when up until now the perp wore gloves? Please,” he scoffed. “Besides, I’ve gone up against the DA’s office before. And just like then, I can get this case dismissed before it even gets to trial.”

Nygma leaned in closer. “But I want it to get to trial.”

“What?”

“I want this to make the news. I want _them_ to try to take me down, in front of a jury, and be utterly defeated. I want their humiliation – and my victory – to be as public as possible.”

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I can work with that as long as you keep this between us. I’ll hold back and let this go to trial like you want, then I’ll win anyway. Anything else?”

“One thing.” Nygma lowered his voice. “If Essen isn’t involved by the time this gets to trial… _get_ her involved.”


	4. Riddle Me That

**Gotham City, USA**

**Thirty months ago**

After making sure his hair was as impeccable as always, Edward Nygma swaggered towards his co-worker.

“So. _Kristen_ ,” he said, rolling the r. “We can’t deny this any longer, can we?”

“Deny what, Ed?” Kristen asked, looking up at him through her round glasses.

“This connection between us? You feel it too, don’t you?”

Oh boy. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Well, she couldn’t exactly jeopardise the case now. She decided that going along was the better option.

Kristen leaned closer to Ed. “Of course I do, Ed. But what are we going to do about it?”

“I was thinking… a date? I know just the place.”

**The Present Day**

Selina’s phone buzzed. A text notification showed up on the screen – _Bruce Wayne_.

_*How?_ * the text read.

As in ‘how did you put your number into my phone?’ Selina smiled and replied with * _wouldn’t you like to know?*_

“Who are you texting?” Holly asked.

* _I’ll find out sooner or later_ ,* Bruce promised. * _The wedding’s in four days. Should I pick you up from your place?*_

“Bruce Wayne,” Selina told Holly, then sent Bruce her address and asked him what time the wedding would be.

Holly stared at her. “You’re texting Bruce Wayne. You. And him. The guy who drove a Porsche into a river once.”

* _Starts at noon, ends at 5,*_ Bruce said.

_*Then I’ll expect you to show up here at 11 am sharp,_ * Selina replied.

“I’ll find out the story behind that sooner or later,” Selina vowed. “And why is it so surprising that I’m texting Bruce Wayne?”

Holly shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like your type: you’re so… tactical, and he just seems like another rich guy. And I saw you smiling earlier – that’s not your ‘this is a con and it’s going well’ smirk.”

“There’s something about it. I think there’s more to him than he lets on.”

“He’s secretly a Basil Carlo character,” Holly suggested. “Tall, dark, handsome, brooding, and lives a double life and surrounds himself with what he fears the most.”

Arizona entered the room. “Did somebody mention Basil Carlo?”

“Good job Holly, you summoned the fangirl.”

“I am not a fangirl!”

“Yes you are,” Holly and Selina both said.

/\\-^|^-/\

It was half past noon, and Bruce was having lunch with Richard Daniels, the President of the Second Bank of Gotham. They were at a modest restaurant. Bruce was having a steak, and Richard was having escargot (he’d just gotten back from Paris and he’d been there long enough to go native).

Richard had some good news for Bruce. “You will be happy to hear that I’ve talked to the board members and they’ve all agreed. You’re on the board.”

“Thanks Richard,” Bruce said. “I owe you one.”

“Nonsense, you were the one who invested in us. I just told the rest of the board that you had enough influence that we might as well make it official.”

“Well, if you hadn’t, they wouldn’t have,” Bruce said. “I know what people think of me.”

“It’s not what I think of you, Bruce,” Richard reassured him. “You have the makings of a great businessman.”

“I’m glad you have that kind of faith in me,” Bruce said. “To tell you the truth, I want to prove that there’s more to me than just my name. This… it’s something I’d be bringing to the table at Wayne Enterprises.”

“You want your father’s company to respect you,” Richard guessed. “I can understand that. We’re both legacies here. _My_ father would never have given me his real estate firm if I hadn’t become President of a bank.”

“I don’t _just_ want them to respect me,” Bruce said. “I want them to underestimate me, then learn why they should _never_ do that.”

“Well,” Richard chuckled. “Here’s to corporate takeovers.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“So, slow work week huh?” Harvey asked. “I haven’t had a case in days.”

“I envy you,” Rachel replied. “I’m the prosecuting attorney on the Riddler case.”

“So? How hard can it be, Nygma’s guilty.”

“Jake Jeffords is defending him.”

“That bastard’s taking us on again? He’s just as bad as the rest of them.”

“I wouldn’t say that, he’s just doing his job.”

“Defending monsters like Nygma isn’t a _job_. If he wanted to do some good, he should have been a prosecutor, he’s just in it for the money.”

“Hey, he defends people _accused_ of crimes. Sometimes the system gets it wrong, Harvey. We _need_ people like him when that happens.”

“The system doesn’t get it wrong,” Harvey insisted. “People do.”

“What do you think the system is?” Rachel responded. “Anyway, I don’t have much time. I have to get testimonies from Gordon and the rest of the Skeleton Crew. They were the ones who brought him in.”

“Shouldn’t they be focusing on taking down the mob?” Harvey asked. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

“The _point_ is keeping people safe, Harvey. I’ll see you later.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“We’ll use these five shell corporations,” Bruce said. “Buy out a few other corporations with the shells, and have the shells _and_ the legitimate corporations buy shares in Wayne Enterprises. Enough for a controlling stake.”

“Which corporations will we buy out?” Alfred asked.

“How about these three?” Harriet suggested, placing files for three different companies on the coffee table. “WellZyn, Pinewood Farms, and AbboTech.”

“Why those three?” Bruce asked.

“David Pinewood is being investigated by the Department of Justice,” Harriet explained. “If we buy his company, he could use the money to leave the country before the investigation has a real chance to get off the ground. WellZyn’s already in a tough spot – they’re easy pickings _and_ buying them out will screw over Villa-Nye Incorporated. Which is a good thing too, because they’re going to get a military contract if you go ahead with terminating the one Wayne Enterprises has, and Villa and Nye are both suspected war criminals.”

“And AbboTech?”

“Jean Abbot has access to a lot of information he shouldn’t. If we can find his source, we can use that kind of information for ourselves.”

“Well then. Let’s set some meetings.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Detective Bradley, can we talk?” Harvey asked. “It’s important.”

“Mr Dent,” Sam said. “It’s good to see you too. What do you want to talk about?”

“I need you to do me a favour. Remember the Triumvirate scandal?”

“How could I not?” Sam asked. “It was all over the news right before I made detective.”

“Well, that was only step one. Right now, Essen’s focused on putting the force back together, but I have more pressing concerns: I want to take Falcone, Maroni, and all the rest of them _down_.”

“We want that too,” Sam said. “Trust me.”

“I do, Sam. And I know just where to start: I need you to sneak into a mafia wedding.”

Sam gulped. Him at a mafia wedding? He was a cop, there was no way he’d make it. “Why me?”

“Because Rachel, Finch, me, and the whole Skeleton Crew are famous now. You’re not.”

“You think no-one will recognise me.”

“I _know_ no-one will. And the more you find out, the closer we get to putting this city back in the hands of good and lawful people and ending this crime wave once and for all.”

**Thirty months ago**

“It’s a risk,” Essen told her. “What if he finds out?”

“We’ve worked together for six months,” Kringle said. “He hasn’t found out yet, and you know I can keep a secret. And even if he _does_ decide to look into my transfer, he won’t find any link to you, we made sure of that.”

Essen wasn’t very reassured, but she trusted the detective. “Alright. It’s your call. But… if something goes wrong, let me know. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

**The Present Day**

Bruce and Selina were both well-dressed for the occasion. Bruce was wearing a two-piece black suit with a blue shirt, and Selina was wearing a long, dark green dress. They were dancing, just like everybody else, but neither of them was remotely like everybody else.

“So, your roommates…” Bruce began.

“They’re not just my roommates,” Selina said. “They’re my friends. Arizona and I have been best friends since she helped me get into business school, and Holly’s like a little sister to me.”

Bruce smiled. “It’s good you have friends,” he said. “I… kind of sabotaged myself in that regard a few years ago.”

“What did you do?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Bruce, I’ve burnt all my bridges at least twice before. How bad can it be?”

“When my girlfriend asked me why I’d started avoiding her, I told her I preferred getting into fights in the East End to spending time with her.”

Selina winced. “Please tell me she dumped you for that.”

“She did. I deserved it...” Bruce didn’t know why he was telling Selina this, but he kept talking, “by that point, I’d spent years taking risks and pushing away everyone who tried to be there for me. It just took Alfred calling me out for me to realize it.”

“Not many people get called out by their butlers,” Selina pointed out.

“He’s not just my butler, he’s family,” Bruce said. Selina looked sceptical. “I’m serious,” Bruce insisted, “most people only have two parents growing up, but I had three. A mom, a dad, and an Alfred.”

They were dancing the waltz, but they had to change dance styles once the song changed. This new song was one they’d danced to before.

“This is the second time we’ve danced _and_ the second time we’ve danced to The Love Cats,” Bruce commented.

“You know what they say,” Selina responded. “Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence…”

“Three times is a pattern,” Bruce finished. “You think there’s going to be a third time?”

“I know there is.”

“That’s awfully confident of you,” Bruce observed dryly.

“Well, I’m a confident woman.”

“I’m glad,” Bruce said. They danced in silence, until he said, “I’m sorry if I put you off with that confession earlier.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Selina said. “Trust me, I’ve pushed plenty of people away too. I think I’m going to let you stay around, though.”

“I think I’m going to let you stay around too.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You wanted to talk?” Gordon asked once he entered Essen’s office.

Essen stood up from her desk. “Yes, Lieutenant, I did. It’s about your latest case.”

“You mean Nygma,” Gordon guessed.

“Yes, I mean Nygma. I want on the case.”

Gordon was confused. “Since when does a police commissioner work a case?”

“Since it’s a concern of this police department, and therefore my concern, and I’m your boss.”

“Meaning it’s personal for you,” Gordon guessed. “Alright, you’re in. But first, you should tell us – the whole Crew, I mean – what your history with Nygma is.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Carla and Felice Vitti weren’t often thought of as _grandparents_. Employers, if you were in the family business. Or, depending on your status, coworkers. Carmine Falcone and Gianluca Vitti thought of them as children. Rivals in the family business – such as Salvatore Maroni – considered them threats that one should strive to stay on the good side of. And civilians thought of them either as menaces or as leaders. But not grandparents.

Except for today, when they were smiling, when they each made their own toasts to their grandson and his new wife, Victoria Maroni-Vitti, when Felice clapped his grandson on the back and told him “I’m proud of you, boy,” when they exchanged pleasantries with the parents of the bride (through gritted teeth, as Vittis and Falcones often did with Salvatore Maroni), today they were grandparents first and foremost.

That did not make Oswald Cobblepot seem any less stupid when he attempted to engage them in conversation and brought up the subject of a certain _other_ descendant of theirs.

“Whatever happened to Johnny, eh?” Oswald asked. “Tosser was one of my best clients and then he up and disappears for no reason! Let me guess: he met some minx in New York City?”

Honestly, the only reason Cobblepot was still _alive_ at this point was because he was too useful to the mafia when it came to financing their operations without the feds getting wise. And blackmail, he seemed to know everything about everyone as long as you’d be able to use that knowledge to your advantage.

If you didn’t have any use for that knowledge, he wouldn’t even allude to it, so perhaps he was smarter than he let on.

“He left us in the dust just as much as you,” Felice grumbled. “What kind of man abandons his family when his nephew has just gotten engaged?”

Cobblepot nodded along, and turned up his beak-like nose at such ‘disloyalty to a dynasty’.

Meanwhile, elsewhere at the wedding reception, Carmine Falcone approached Bruce Wayne.

“Bruce,” Falcone began, “I’m glad you came.” He offered the billionaire his hand.

Bruce considered the offer. On the one hand (pun unintended because he was Batman and did not _make_ puns), it would _not_ be good publicity if he was seen shaking the mob boss’s hand. On the other hand (okay, fine, he _did_ make puns) snubbing the mob boss would be a terrible idea. For starters, it would attract too much mafia attention to Bruce Wayne.

He shook Falcone’s hand. “I’m glad to be here, Mr Falcone,” he said.

“Oh don’t call me that,” Falcone scoffed. “To you, it’s just Carmine. I was a friend of your parents you know.”

Bruce nodded. “I remember seeing you at the funeral.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you,” Carmine said. “I thought you might not want to have yet another stranger in a suit reminding you about what you’d lost.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Bruce said. “I didn’t realize you were friends with them, though.”

“Well, it wasn’t good for their image,” Carmine explained. “I understood that before they did. But they appreciated the fact that I kept people safe, in my own way. I wish I’d managed to live up to their legacy.”

Bruce stayed silent.

“Bruce, your father saved my life. I will always owe him for that, but I can’t pay him back so I’m going to help you instead. And you need to know this: what you’re doing… it’s a good thing, and it’s heroic, but you have to be careful. You can’t start crossing lines for the greater good, because once you do… once you do, you start justifying every line you cross from there as being for the greater good, and every time you cross one it gets easier to cross the next and harder to go back. And before you know it, you turn into someone like me or the Reaper.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The Skeleton Crew were all gathered in the conference room. They were all sitting around the table. Essen… she didn’t want to be doing this, but she knew she should be.

“Back before the Bat showed up,” Essen began, “a detective from White Collar Crimes Unit came to me to tell me that she thought someone was selling information from the GCPD database to stock traders.”

“Did she have any proof?” Yin asked.

“She showed me files that several of the traders she’d arrested had used to make their insider trades, and pointed out that a lot of those files looked like something from the GCPD database. When we compared them to the actual database, we saw that they were almost identical.”

“And let me guess,” Bullock predicted, “the mole was Nygma.”

Essen nodded. “We checked who’d accessed the files that were sold. No one person had accessed all of them, but Nygma had accessed all but three in the last two weeks before the insider traders received each file. It looked suspicious, but we didn’t have any real proof so I had the detective investigate.”

“What happened?” Bennet asked.

“She tried to get closer to Nygma. It worked… actually, it worked too well. He asked her out, and she made a judgement call and said yes. They dated for fifteen days before he figured out that she’d been investigating him the whole time.”

“Fifteen days…” Montoya realized something. “This was what, two and a half years ago?” Essen nodded. “That was around the time that Nygma asked me for advice asking out Kristen Kringle… they dated for fifteen days, then she disappeared. Essen, what happened to her?”

Essen sighed, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “But… I have to assume the worst. And that’s why I want on this case. I want to give Kristen’s parents the closure they need, and I want to make sure that monster rots in hell for what he did.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sam Bradley had no idea what he was doing here.

Actually, he knew exactly what he was doing here, but he was starting to doubt himself. What if somebody recognised him, what if…

“What,” a woman whispered into his ear, “is a _cop_ doing here?”

“I can explain,” Sam said as he whirled around, “I’m, uh- a d-dirty cop, yeah-“

“Relax,” the woman said. “Just because I recognized you doesn’t mean everyone else will. Who’d expect a cop with the balls to pull a stunt like this to be as nervous as you are right now?”

“…Thanks?” Sam said. He was looking nervous? Well, his eyes _were_ darting around every time a public enemy walked past… which was pretty much all the time, he was in the lion’s den right now. “So… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” she said. “You just won me a bet.” The woman walked towards… was that _Bruce Wayne!?_ “You owe me two grand,” she told the billionaire.

“I didn’t get your name,” Sam said.

The woman turned around. “Selina Kyle. And you are?”

“Sam Bradley, Jr.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Mr Jeffords, let me get one thing out of the way first,” ADA Rachel Dawes said. “I am _not_ going to drop this case, and I am certainly not going to settle, no matter what tricks you pull out of your ass. This is going to trial, and you’re going to lose.”

“Oh, I don’t want to settle either,” Jake Jeffords promised. “No, the only reason I’m meeting with you is to tell you that my client wants a trial too. Because he knows I’ll win.”

“Actually, he _thinks_ you’ll win and _knows_ we won’t be able to prosecute him for this a second time if you do, unless he commits another crime,” Dawes said. She stepped closer to Jeffords. “ _If_ you were to win, he _would_ commit another crime, and then we’d take him down anyway. But let me give you a word of advice: get a lawyer. A good one. Because when this is over,” Dawes hissed as she glared, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Nygma finds an excuse to sue your ass for malpractice because _he is guilty as all hell_ and I am going to make sure that he goes away for a very, _very_ long time.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Maroni loved luxury. His tan from a holiday in the Caribbean showed that, as did his _ridiculously_ expensive suit. And the diamond studded gold watch. But luxury cost money, which is what he was trying to secure for himself right now. “Look, Richard,” he said to Richard Daniels, “You’re a smart guy, I know you know what to do here. You don’t have to incriminate yourself, just make it so I don’t have to disclose a few hundred grand a month worth of income… I’ll make it worth your while,” he promised. “Ten percent of a few hundred grand is still more than ten thousand dollars.”

Richard Daniels was indeed a smart man. That’s why despite being a millionaire, he still wore suits that only cost triple digits. “You _do_ have a point, Don Maroni. We have a deal.”

“Glad to hear it,” Maroni smiled as he walked away.

Bruce Wayne approached Richard Daniels next. “Richard, was that Sal Maroni I just saw you talking to?”

“Yes, it was,” Daniels said. “Why do you ask, Bruce?”

Bruce sighed. “Look,” he said. “I consider you a friend – really, I do. _And_ I owe you for getting me on the board. So I’m going to warn you now: getting involved with the mob is not going to end well.”

Daniels smiled at Bruce. “Bruce, I respect your moral compass, but… this isn’t about ethics, this is business. You can’t be a businessman without getting your hands dirty, not in today’s world.”

“Then shouldn’t we try to change the world? Besides, think about it: the GCPD’s turned around. Half the men here are probably going to get arrested or deported before the year ends. The other half will be the ones who got out while they still had time. Which half do _you_ want to be in?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Bruce, we need to talk,” Alfred said.

“I know, you think I need to sleep,” Bruce rolled his eyes. “I slept for five whole hours yesterday, what more do you want?”

“That’s not what we need to talk about,” Harriet told him. “We just saw it on the news…”

“What?” Bruce asked. “What happened?”

“Richard Daniels was shot this morning.”

Bruce felt like he was a child again, falling down a well, surrounded by darkness. _Richard Daniels had been shot_. After _Bruce_ convinced him not to get involved with a mafia don.

It was his fault.

_A man was dead and it was his fault._


	5. Soul and Faith

**Twenty Years Ago**

Harold Dent was a young and idealistic man, and above all a good Christian. Every Sunday, without fail, he attended Reverend Mark’s sermon at the Gotham City Church of St Dumas. Harold had admired Reverend Mark since he first heard one of the man’s sermons as a child.

And so, when Harold Dent had to make a difficult decision, he knew who to ask for advice.

Reverend Mark was a pillar of the community, and above all a good man. He knew there were those who believed that faith and religion dictated an absolute morality, but he rejected that idea. God was all-loving and all-knowing, and such a being _must_ know of nuance and the greyness of human morality.

And so, when Harold Dent came to him asking for advice, he knew what to say.

“What troubles you, Harold?”

“I found out something that I should tell the police, but if I do I’ll implicate myself,” Harold admitted. “I was hired to do some financial analysis, but when I looked into what I was doing, I realized they’d actually hired me to help them launder money, and...” he hesitated.

Reverend Mark put a hand on Harold’s shoulder encouragingly.

Harold continued. “I told them I wouldn’t work for them anymore, that I’d go to the police, but they told me that they put my name in two of the offshore accounts they were using. If I do tell the police, they’ll investigate and they’ll think I was an accomplice.”

“It doesn’t have to turn out that way, Harold,” Reverend Mark told him. “Go home. Think about it, and tomorrow, if you so choose, you can go to the police and tell them everything. Tell them that the people who hired you framed you. That way, you’ll be able to do the right thing and still stay free.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

“Then you will have sacrificed your own freedom in order to do good. And you will know that you’re a good man, no matter what happens.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

Not too far away, in a car on the street, a man was watching them. He couldn’t hear what they said, but he could read lips. And after Harold Dent left, the man in the car drove to the nearest payphone and made a call.

On the other end of the line, Carmine Falcone listened. He hung up, got on his knees, and prayed for forgiveness for what he would have to do.

**The Present Day**

Sam was on his phone as he entered his apartment. “Look, we know the bullet was fired from the hotel, so there has to be some sort of evidence there. Tell the forensics team to go back there in the morning and check it again.”

“Detective Bradley,” Batman said.

Sam cursed. “Will you stop sneaking up on cops like that? How did you even get in here?” They were, after all, in Sam Bradley’s apartment.

“This is not the time to discuss that. You’re the lead detective on the Richard Daniels murder, correct?”

“I am. And I can handle it,” Sam insisted. “I don’t need a vigilante’s help.”

“Yes you do. Because that bullet? It wasn’t fired from the hotel.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you,” Batman said. “Follow me.”

And then he opened the window and stepped out onto the fire escape.

/\\-^|^-/\

“You’re trespassing on a crime scene right now,” Sam pointed out as Batman walked towards Richard Daniels’ corpse.

“This is Gotham,” Batman reminded him. “It’s legal for me, as a civilian, to enter a crime scene if the lead detective accepts my help. And by following me here, you _have_.”

“That’s a technicality!” Sam protested.

“Richard Daniels was about nine metres from the hotel when he was shot, yes?”

“Yes. So?”

“So, if the shooter was in the hotel, they’d have to have been _leaning over_ the windowsill – especially on the seventh floor, which I believe is where you think they fired the bullet from. No sniper would take a risk like that.”

“Well this one _did_. The angle of the shot-“

“Only tells us how the bullet was travelling when it hit him. And I’m willing to bet that with a little more accuracy, you’d be able to trace it back to the letter e on that sign,” Batman said as he pointed to the hotel’s neon sign. The letters glowed red but were surrounded by metal that had been painted black. The sign was tilted downwards slightly.

“You can’t see it from here,” Batman continued, “but I looked at that sign with binoculars from another rooftop, and the metal around the neon letter is scratched in one corner – as if a bullet had ricocheted off of it. And if we know the tilt of the sign and the angle of the bullet _after_ it hit the sign, we can calculate the _actual_ position of the killer.”

“Wait,” Sam said. “The shooter wouldn’t have risked hitting the neon tubes and giving themselves away. You expect me to believe that they successfully _aimed for the metal edge_ and accurately predicted the angle the bullet would ricochet off of the sign at? No sniper is _that_ good.”

Batman was silent for a moment. “Actually,” he said at last, “there’s always someone who’s _that_ good.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You want me to _what!?_ ” Alfred exclaimed.

“I want you to help me find where the sniper was firing from,” Bruce repeated. “You used to be a sniper, didn’t you?”

“Hang on, Bruce, do you have _any idea_ what you’re saying? I _was_ a sniper, and let me tell you – it’s bloody difficult. There are so many variables to take into account when you’re taking a shot – how am I supposed to know the wind speed and direction that day? Or the sniper’s height? The angle of the shot is one thing, but the longer a distance you’re talking about the less accurate the result you get will be.”

“You’re right, Alfred,” Bruce admitted. “I have no idea what I’m talking about when it comes to snipers. But you do, which is why I _need_ your help. A man is _dead_ because of me.”

Alfred stopped protesting when he heard that last sentence. “Bruce… Richard Daniels’ death was _not_ your fault. It was Maroni and whoever Maroni hired to do it… _you_ were just doing the right thing…” Alfred sighed. “I’ll help you.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“So, what do you think?” Bruce asked.

They were observing the crime scene and the surrounding buildings using high-powered binoculars, and standing on the roof of an apartment block.

“Well, it was what, quarter past nine when Richard Daniels was shot? Assuming the killer _didn’t_ want the sun in his eyes when he took the shot, that rules out two-thirds of the rooftops.”

“He probably took the shot from a rooftop to the east of the hotel,” Bruce agreed. “That’s good, but it’s not enough. How do we narrow it down further?”

“You can’t, unless you’re planning on climbing down from the roof of that hotel and looking at the sign where the bullet hit it up close…” Alfred realised what he’d just said and immediately added, “Bruce, no.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The hard part was getting _up_ to the roof of the hotel. Fortunately, Bruce had built a new grappling gun to help him with that.

The grappling gun mark two was more well-built than the original: Bruce now knew how to design the device, so he didn’t have to worry about fine-tuning the mechanisms. The dial for setting when the grappling gun would stop the rope was more precise now, and the wind vane was now fixed above the barrel. He’d also decided to paint the rifle black because if you were going to grapple, why not do it in style?

Laying on top of the same building where Alfred had given him the idea, Bruce turned the dial until it reached the setting he needed, turned off the safety, took aim at the roof of the hotel and fired. The grappling hook hit the ledge around the roof, taking hold. The impact set off a radio signal that made its way back to the rifle, where it activated the motor. A light turned on to let Bruce know, and he stood up and let the motor pull him off of one roof and towards the other.

When he was close enough, Bruce paused the motor. For two seconds, he dangled off of the edge of the roof, then he pressed the button to make the motor go in reverse and feed him some slack. In this way, Bruce rappelled down the side of the building until he was next to the neon sign.

He needed to take three measurements. He’d already measured Richard’s position in relation to the hotel, now all he needed was the position of the mark the bullet left on the sign and the angle between the sign and the wall. He measured the latter right there – look at the distance between the wall and the top of the sign, then the height of the wall behind the sign, after that it’s all basic trigonometry.

To measure the position of the bullet’s mark, he moved along the sign until he could see it, measuring distances as he went.

It was fortunate that his training had included learning to accurately measure distances by sight alone.

/\\-^|^-/\

Sam’s phone started ringing. It was a blocked number, but given who he’d just started working with, he decided to answer the call anyway.

“Detective Bradley,” a distorted voice said. “I know where the killer took the shot from.”

Sam was right, it _was_ Batman calling. “Good for you, but we’ve figured it out too. After you left, I asked the ballistics guys to check the crime scene – and that sign of yours – and they were able to figure out the angle of the shot. Whoever did it didn’t leave much of a trace, but that kind of shot would require a specialist rifle and scope, so we’re looking into who’d own that kind of firepower. Thanks for the help, though.”

“… You’re welcome.”

**Twenty Years Ago**

When Harold Dent walked into his living room, there was an olive-skinned man with dark hair waiting for him. Carmine Falcone.

“How did you get in here?” Harold asked.

Falcone ignored this question. “The last time we met, I told you why I’d asked you to help me launder money. I needed it to finance my operation. Without that money, I would be forced to go into the narcotics business, or racketeering, just to keep order in this city. Now you’re about to do something that might get me imprisoned.”

Harold shook his head. “You’re not going to talk me out of this, Falcone. I don’t care _why_ you say you’re doing this, you wouldn’t have broken into my house to intimidate me if your motives were altruistic.”

Falcone laughed. “You still think a person living in this city can do good without breaking the law. I respect that. But, since I can’t talk you out of this, that leaves me with one option.” He picked up the Dent residence phone and dialled a number. “I wish I didn’t have to do this,” he said.

When the call picked up, Falcone just said, “Do it.” He handed the phone to Harold.

What Harold heard next broke him:

“ _Any last words, Reverend?_ ”

_“Please…”_

And then a bang.

Harold blanched. He stared at Falcone. “How could you?”

“I’m not proud of it,” Falcone said. “But it’s for the greater good. You should consider that more.”

Falcone turned to leave and said one last thing as he walked out. “You’ve got a wife. And a son. Take good care of them, there’s nothing more important than family.”

**The Present Day**

Floyd Lawton was happy.

When he and Susan had gotten divorced, one of the terms was that Zoe got to stay with Floyd every other weekend. Those two days were always the best part of the fortnight for Floyd.

In the following five years, Floyd and Zoe developed a routine: on Saturday, they would go to the mall and then to the zoo or the cinema; on Sunday, Floyd would help Zoe with her homework and they would play Monopoly, or Overwatch, or one of the Ratchet and Clank games. Floyd hadn’t had much of an interest in videogames, but Zoe loved them, so Floyd started buying the games Zoe liked so they could play them when Zoe visited.

Susan could say what she wants about his job, but even she acknowledged that Floyd was a good dad.

Today was a Saturday, and it was one of those weekends. Floyd and Zoe were at the mall and Zoe was telling her dad all about her new school.

“It’s not as cool as Arkham Elementary was,” Zoe said, “because we have to wear these really tacky uniforms, but the teachers are much better at explaining things.”

“So, what are your favourite classes?” Floyd asked

“Math,” Zoe said immediately. “And Physics. I don’t like Gym, though.”

“Huh,” Floyd said. “You’re a lot like me at your age.”

“Really? _You_ didn’t like _Gym_? But you were in the army.”

“Yeah, but I only got fit after I signed up. Before, I couldn’t even climb a rope. _Math_ was always my strong suit.”

“Yeah, it’s a great subject. But all the other kids always say it’s never going to be useful in real life.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Floyd scoffed. “Right. Tell me something you learned in Math this month.”

“We learnt about trigonometry,” Zoe offered.

Floyd smiled. “Trigonometry’s the _best_. Let’s say you’re… let’s say you’re playing golf.”

“Golf?”

“You don’t like golf?”

“It’s boring.”

“Alright then. Let’s say you’re playing _snooker._ ” Floyd took out a piece of paper and a pencil and started explaining how trigonometry is important in snooker.

/\\-^|^-/\

“I know who the shooter is,” Batman said.

“Floyd Lawton?” Sam guessed. “It takes a pretty damn powerful scope _and_ rifle to make a shot like the one he did, and he owns both, he was a sniper in the military, he travels around a lot and he was present in five other cities when similar shootings occurred there.”

“It must be nice to have police resources,” Batman commented. “I tracked him down… differently.” Yes, differently. “He sold the shells to a woman who owns a shop on Grundy Street.”

He and Alfred had figured that the shooter would want to dispose of the bullet shells, and had come up with four main ways: dump them in the trash, dump them in a sewer, dump them in the river, or sell them to someone who would melt them down. They’d decided to test the fourth theory first since it was easier to test than the others and had a more pressing time limit.

Bruce – in disguise, of course – had visited several ‘cash for jewellery’ shops asking if anybody had sold them bullet shells, before he’d gotten lucky.

“What _kind_ of shells?” the store’s owner had asked. That had already been a good sign – she wouldn’t have asked him that question if the answer was ‘no’.

Unfortunately, Bruce had had no idea how to describe the shells since he’d never seen them. Fortunately, he’d had Alfred and had been wearing an earpiece that Alfred could use to talk Bruce through this. The butler had told Bruce the approximate length of the bullets, which Bruce had indicated to the shop’s owner by saying ‘about this long’ and holding his fingers the appropriate distance apart, and that they were most likely made of brass.

“Yeah,” the woman had said. “Someone was here to sell me shells like that.”

“Did you get his name?” Bruce had asked.

/\\-^|^-/\

Floyd and Zoe were at Floyd’s house in Norchester, Gotham’s most suburban borough, trying to decide whether to go to the zoo or the cinema when there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Zoe asked.

“I don’t know,” Floyd said, keeping his tone steady. He tried to remind himself that an unexpected knock on the door almost never means what he was scared it meant. “Stay here, Zoe.”

Floyd walked out of the living room into the hallway and opened the door to see a GCPD detective – ‘Sam Bradley,’ his badge read – and the Batman standing outside his house.

“Detective,” Floyd smiled. “Batman. What’s, uh… what’s happening here?”

The cop was about to say something when the Batman motioned for him to be quiet. “Floyd, we know what you did,” he said. “I’m sorry we have to do this now, but you need to come with us.”

“No,” Floyd said. “No, I can’t… I never… I didn’t…”

“Dad?”

Floyd turned around. His daughter had followed him. “ _Zoe_ ,” Floyd said. His voice was almost breaking. “Zoe, I told you to stay in the living room…”

“Dad, why are they here?” Zoe asked, scared of what the answer might be. “What did you do?” Her voice was shaking.

“Zoe, I… I don’t want you to think I’m a bad person…”

“Dad, I _don’t_ think that. I _know_ you.”

Zoe tried to keep her voice steady.

“Dad, you’re a good person and sometimes good people do bad things but they’re still good people and you know that they’re good people be-because they… they take responsibility… for what they did, and I _know_ you’re a good person, Dad.”

“I killed someone Zoe,” Floyd said. “And it wasn’t by accident, and it wasn’t the first time I did it. That’s what my job is.”

Zoe stepped back, mouth open in shock.

“I’m sorry Zoe,” Floyd said. “I never wanted… I never wanted you to know that about me.” He turned back around and held out his wrists to the cop.

“Floyd Lawton,” Detective Bradley said reluctantly, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Richard Daniels.” He cuffed Floyd. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Goodbye Zoe,” Floyd said.

Detective Bradley continued reading Floyd his rights as he took Floyd back to the police car: “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the court will provide an attorney for you.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Bruce?” Alfred asked. “Are you okay?”

Bruce was sitting in the study, staring out the window, watching rain hit the glass. He had bags under his eyes, his hair was messy and he was starting to look pale.

“Bruce, I know this is hard for you, but…” Alfred hesitated. “We both know that sometimes the bad guys aren’t as bad as we expect them to be. And sometimes they have families. And we both know that sometimes… sometimes, you can’t win completely.”

“I tried to make up for pushing people away by leaving Gotham, and when I came back my company was about to be torn to pieces and the city was in the hands of men and women who didn’t deserve it,” Bruce said. “I’ve been trying to make up for leaving Gotham, and I got a man killed, and then I broke up a family even more than it already was, because I was trying to make amends.”

“Bruce, none of that was your fault-“

“Yes it was!” Bruce snapped at Alfred. “It was _all! My! Fault!_ ”

“Bruce-“

“If I hadn’t gotten scared, we would never have run into him in that alley!”

The silence covered everything.

Bruce felt weak.

“And how could you have known that?” Harriet asked. Bruce hadn’t even realized she was there. “Bruce, when did you start blaming yourself like this again?”

“I…”

“Bruce,” Harriet said. “We just want to help you.”

“Since I came back to this house,” Bruce said at last. “All I can think about is… when they were alive…”

Alfred swallowed. “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping? Why you’ve been making those contingency plans?”

“I… I couldn’t sleep, not here, and I couldn’t let myself be caught unprepared again.”

“We want to help you,” Harriet said again. “But… we can’t. I don’t have the training, and neither does Alfred. Maybe…” she hesitated, knowing how Bruce felt about therapists. “You should talk to someone who does?”

Bruce looked at the window again. He sighed. He was silent. And then he said, “I’ll call Dr Strange in the morning. Until then… I need to sleep. But not here, not yet.”

“I’ll call John,” Alfred said. “He’d be happy to help.”

**Twenty Years Ago**

After Reverend Mark, the next Reverend was Joseph Blackfire.

At first, he was kind and gentle. For two months, he seemed to mourn Reverend Mark, hesitant to follow in his footsteps. For two months after that, his sermons were the same as Reverend Mark’s, and he won over his congregation.

But then he started changing what he said.

They were small changes at first: sermons that were more decisive, less advocacy of compromise. But those small changes grew bigger and more numerous, and after two years he was preaching hellfire sermons on damnation and the moral and sexual degeneracy of modern society.

And Harold Dent listened.


	6. The Problem of Evil

Floyd Lawton was in an interrogation room, handcuffed to a table. He’d refused to say anything without his attorney present – so Detective Bradley, and his boss Sergeant Montoya, left him here. Montoya had come back a few minutes ago to tell Floyd that his lawyer was on his way.

By now, Floyd was starting to wonder who exactly this lawyer was – at least, until a middle-aged man wearing the kind of expensive suit only lawyers, bankers, executives, and Mafiosi wore walked into the room.

“Good, you’re still here,” the lawyer said.

Floyd rolled his eyes and looked at the guy. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes. And no. You might have cut a deal.”

“Not gonna happen,” Floyd said. “The only way I’m cutting a deal is if a lawyer’s there to approve it.”

“Well then,” the lawyer smiled. “You’re in luck, because there’s no way I’m going to let you cut any deals. Maroni wants to be sure you won’t cross him.”

Oh. Floyd supposed he should have seen this coming.

Well, the first thing he needed to do now was make sure Susan and Zoe got to safety.

“The name’s Lau Wei, by the way.” Lau chuckled to himself. “That pun wasn’t even intentional.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“I don’t know where to start, Doc,” Bruce said.

It was a bit different to what one would have imagined: there was a sofa, but Bruce was sitting on it rather than lying. Across from him, the renowned psychologist sat in his armchair (Bruce decided to judge the man’s credentials by his past achievements and _not_ any double meanings his choice in furniture might indicate).

“Well, it may be a cliché, but perhaps you should start with your childhood,” the baritone-voiced man suggested.

Hugo Strange was bald, tan, and wore round spectacles. He sat with one leg bent, resting on the other; his hands clasped together so that his fingers interlocked.

Bruce was silent for a while. “I’m sure you know the story,” he said at last, looking down.

“I do,” Strange said. “But I want to hear it from you. I want to know how it affected you. When it happened, you must have felt… grief? Horror? Rage?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bruce said. “All of those… After I lost them, the fact that they were dead was all I could think about for _months_. I wanted to see the man who did that again, just so I could kill him myself. And… I never felt more horrified in my life than I did in that one moment, when they...” Bruce trailed off. “When they died.”

“You wanted to see him again,” Strange repeated. “Did you try?”

“Not at first,” Bruce said. “I… the detective working that case, he promised me he’d find him. But… you know the story. How after two years it became a cold case, and how it was a miracle it had even gotten that far. When the detective came to my house to tell me… to tell me that the police were giving up, that I was never going to get closure… I had to try to get it myself.”

“What did you do?”

“I looked for leads. Anything – any enemies my parents might have had. Any secrets. I knew they were good people, but I also knew good people can have enemies and secrets too. So I looked, and looked, and took everything I found and tried to put it together into a cohesive theory. Eventually, I thought I’d found a lead, that my parents had threatened to expose corruption in their company and they were killed for it… but when I tried to find more evidence, I came up with nothing.”

“Did you stop looking?”

Bruce laughed bitterly. “I wish. No, I just… I tried a different tactic. Tried finding him from the other end. Went out on the street. Got into fights looking for information. When Alfred tried to stop me, I… I didn’t realise he was trying to protect me. I left. Lived in the Narrows for two, three weeks.”

“Why did you come back?”

“Because before I did that, I hadn’t realised what it was like. What it was like to have almost nothing. Living in the Narrows, it put things in perspective. I started to realise, finally realise, that my parents’ deaths were probably just a mugging. That maybe there wasn’t some insidious conspiracy behind it.”

“Knowing that didn’t help, did it?”

Bruce sighed. “No, it didn’t. I was still angry, and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it didn’t help. I kept putting myself in danger. Alfred actually gave up trying to stop me… instead, he taught me how to defend myself. How to end a fight as soon as possible. How to survive. But I think he kept hoping…”

“Hoping for what?”

“That I’d come to my senses, that I’d stop endangering myself and driving the people who care about me away…”

“It seems to me he wound up being right,” Strange remarked.

“Only after I went too far,” Bruce said. “By the time I took a step back, Ethan and I hadn’t seen each other in years, and Rachel wasn’t speaking to me.”

“Being so obsessed with your anger destroyed your relationships,” Strange surmised. “Your parents were the most important part of your safety net, but people like Alfred or Ethan or Rachel made up the rest. You need to start building that safety net back up. Repair old relationships and strengthen new ones. You mentioned your father liked to quote Nolan?”

“He was a huge philosophy buff,” Bruce said.

“I’m familiar with late 19th-Century philosophy myself. Nolan said those words in an attempt to solve the problem of evil. The actual quote is ‘We fall, so that when we are pushed down, then we may know how to pick ourselves up’ – he argued that God created natural hardships to prepare humanity for when we inflict them on each other.”

“What’s your point, Doc?”

“There was another philosopher. One not known for his philosophy as much as for his other contributions, but still. Hans Von Hammer.”

“The World War One pilot?”

“Yes. Before the war broke out, he was an obscure philosopher. He built on Nolan’s solution to the problem of evil by suggesting that ‘we fall not so that we can learn to pick ourselves up, but so that we can help each other get back on our feet, and stand tall’. Before Nolan died, he wrote Von Hammer a letter congratulating him on the way he built on Nolan’s work.”

“You’re saying that I can’t get better unless I put that safety net you mentioned back together?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Dent walked into Finch’s office.

“Floyd Lawton,” Dent said. “Charged with premeditated murder of Richard Daniels.”

“Carl Finch,” Finch replied. “Did five weeks of community service for public urination. Pleased to meet you Lawton, how are you this _fine_ day?”

“I’m being serious, Finch.”

“So am I, Grundy Street was clear of litter for over a month thanks to me.”

“I want to be the prosecuting attorney on Lawton’s case,” Dent cut to the chase.

Finch leaned forwards, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t pick your cases,” Finch said. “I assign you your cases.”

“And I’m asking you to assign this case to me,” Dent explained.

“Why?”

“Because Dawes and I are the best attorney’s you’ve got and she’s busy with Nygma-“

“Exactly,” Finch said. “You’re the only one of my two best attorneys who I can assign to any major cases that come along between now and the end of Nygma’s trial. What’s so important about Lawton?”

“Richard Daniels was the President of the Second Bank of Gotham. The cop I sent to snoop on the Vitti-Maroni wedding told me he saw Salvatore Maroni talking to Daniels. The next day, the Second Bank refused to grant a loan Maroni wanted taken out to an offshore account.”

“So?”

“’So’!?” Dent repeated. “Maroni had Lawton kill Daniels for refusing to help Maroni launder money!”

Finch leaned back in his chair, hands on the back of his head, and smiled. “ _There_ it is. You want to use this case to take down Maroni.”

“Exactly,” Dent said. “If we get this done, we can end one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city!”

“And _you_ get my job, is that right?”

“What? That’s not what this is about!”

“Relax, I’m messing with you,” Finch laughed. “That said, if you _do_ take down Maroni because of this case, you _will_ be the next DA for Gotham.”

“And if I don’t?” Dent asked.

“Then Dawes will be the next DA for Gotham.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Wait, so whether you win this case or not decides which one of us gets the promotion?” Rachel said. “Normally, I’d be rooting for you to take down Maroni, but if you don’t that means I get to be your boss!” she laughed.

They were at a restaurant just down the street from the DA’s office, having lunch. Rachel hadn’t been there before, but Harvey was a well-known patron (mainly because he’d mentioned in an interview with Vicky Vale that he liked to dine there).

“Hey,” Harvey warned. “I don’t get promoted for winning the case, I get promoted for using it to get rid of Maroni.”

“Still,” Rachel said. She took out her checkbook. “Shall we split the check?”

“Fifty-fifty,” Harvey said. “Just like we always do.”

“Or,” a third person said, “I could foot the bill. My treat.”

Rachel’s smile fell when she recognised the voice. Harvey only recognised the speaker after he turned to look at the man sitting at the table to their left.

“Wayne,” Harvey said.

“Bruce,” Rachel said.

“Rachel,” Bruce said. “I know we already had this conversation once, but…” Bruce paused. “I’m sorry, for how I acted. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I’m getting help with some of my… issues, and my therapist said I should try to reconnect with the people I used to be close to. So… this is me… trying.”

Rachel sighed. “Bruce, we can’t just go back to being friends after all of our history. It’s going to take more than just a speech.”

Bruce nodded. “I know. But… will you give me a chance?”

“One chance,” Rachel said. “And that’s it.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said, smiling.

Harvey cleared his throat. “Hi, am I going to be introduced at any point during this conversation?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Harvey, Bruce. Bruce, Harvey.”

The two men shook hands. “Pleasure meeting you, Harvey,” Bruce said.

“Don’t get used to it, Wayne,” Harvey replied. “I’m going to be busy for the next few weeks. I’m working on a pretty big case.”

“Oh?” Bruce asked. “How’s it going?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“How,” Dent muttered through gritted teeth, “did Lawton manage to post bail? His assets were _frozen_.”

“I think he got a check from his lawyer,” Bradley said. “I checked out Lau Wei, and it turns out he used to be a trader until he moved over to law. And here’s the best part: the trading firm he worked at? Owned by Sal Maroni.”

“Dammit, Maroni has Lawton’s back,” Dent muttered.

“Either that or he’s making sure Lawton doesn’t cross him,” Bradley suggested. “Either way, we just need to figure out how to get Lau off this case.”

“And Lawton?”

“Right now, he’s under house arrest. Two detectives have been assigned to watch him. Cort and Dougherty.”

/\\-^|^-/\

One of Floyd’s new ‘roommates’ stomped into the living room. His name was… Cort? Average height, muscular build, buzz cut, and bags under his eyes.

“Hey Lawton, you got a visitor!” Cort yelled. “She’s hot!”

Floyd got up from the couch. “Alright, I know you’re my babysitter, and that must annoy you, but could you refrain from shouting your thoughts about the physical attractiveness of my visitors to the world? And get some sleep, you look like a panda.”

“Hey,” Cort said. “Screw you. I’m only here because Maroni thinks you need supervision.”

Floyd walked over to the door and opened it. He recognised the woman who was standing on the doorstep and glaring at him immediately.

“Susan,” Floyd said.

“You son of a bitch,” Susan snarled, pushing past him. “I suppose you have an excuse for this too? Go on, I _can’t wait_ to hear how you justify Zoe having to call me crying about how her _father_ is a murderer! God, I knew you were a criminal, but I thought you were a con man or something! This!? Of all the ways to make some extra money, you decide to do it by _killing people!?_ ”

Floyd looked at her. “I can’t justify what I did. All I _can_ say is that I started this because killing people is what I’m good at. And that by the time I wanted to stop, I was too far gone.”

“Bull,” Susan hissed. “How long have you been doing this anyway? That’s all I want to know: how long has the father of my child been a contract killer?”

“Susan,” Floyd said. “Do you remember…” From the corner of his eye, Floyd saw Cort watching them. “Do you remember our honeymoon?”

Susan and Floyd looked at each other silently for a few moments. Then, for just a moment, Susan’s glare softened, and Floyd knew she understood.

Susan slapped him and stormed out.

Floyd turned around. Cort was still there.

“What are _you_ looking at?” Floyd snarled.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Commissioner Essen, have you ever investigated the defendant for a crime?” Dent asked.

“I have,” Essen said.

“And what _was_ that crime?”

“Selling information from the GCPD criminal database to stock traders.”

“How did you get involved with that investigation?”

“Detective Kristen Kringle, from the White Collar Crimes Unit, came to me because she suspected that insider traders she’d been investigating were getting their information from the GCPD’s database.”

“Was she right?”

“Objection!” Jeffords interrupted. “Calls for speculation!”

“I’ll amend my phrasing,” Dent said. “Did you believe Detective Kringle’s suspicions?”

“We compared the data the traders had received to data from the database, and there were more than enough similarities. So yes, I believed her.”

“How did you come to suspect the defendant for this crime?”

“We looked into everyone who had accessed the relevant parts of the database no more than two weeks before that part of the database was leaked to a trader. Then we narrowed the suspect pool down further by looking at the parts of the data that were changed from the database, specifically language. That led us to the defendant.”

“And what did you do next?”

“Detective Kringle suggested that she – as the one of us with a lower profile – arrange to be transferred to Cybercrime Unit, and get close to Nygma to gather information on him.”

“Why is Detective Kringle not here today?”

Essen was silent.

“Detective Essen?”

“Detective Kringle ended up entering into a relationship with the defendant to keep the investigation going. After two weeks, she disappeared.”

“Do you believe that the defendant killed her?”

“I believe that it wasn’t beyond him to do it if he found out.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Jake Jeffords was pissed, and once they were out of earshot, he let Nygma know it.

“Did you know that Kringle girl was investigating you?” he hissed at Nygma.

Nygma shrugged. “I figured it out eventually.”

“Then how come you didn’t tell me!?” Jeffords yelled as he rounded on Nygma.

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Not impor-“ Jeffords stepped back, took a deep breath, and raised his hands, balling them into fists before lowering them again. “Not important? You didn’t think this would come up at some point – you _wanted_ Essen involved, and you didn’t think to mention this detail to me?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is how you’re going to get me out of this. You need to cross-examine Essen.”

“And I’m going to do that,” Jeffords said. “But tell me one thing first: did you kill this girl?”

“Well… yes.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Floyd didn’t have much time away from Cort and Dougherty – and during the time he _did_ have, they made sure he didn’t have his phone on him. Fortunately, after Dent’s deposition, Floyd convinced Cort and Dougherty to let him stretch his legs a bit.

Of course, Floyd could see Dougherty’s greasy hair and beige suit two dozen paces behind him. Floyd crossed the street right before the light turned red, and the cars that rushed across the road blocked him from Dougherty’s line of sight. That was when the jogger bumped into him.

“Sorry man,” the jogger said.

“No problem,” Floyd replied.

Just as rehearsed.

When Floyd got back home, Dougherty cavity checked him. He didn’t find the burner phone the jogger had dropped in Floyd’s pocket because Floyd dumped it into the trash can when neither of his babysitters were looking. He took the phone out of the trash later – again, when Cort and Dougherty weren’t looking. Obviously. Hid the phone in his pocket, took it into the bathroom with him, where he took it out and typed a text.

‘ _Hey_ ,’ he wrote. ‘ _It’s Lawton. I need a favour._ ’

/\\-^|^-/\

“You wanted to see us, boss?” Dawes asked.

Finch nodded. “I did. I’m going to be making an official announcement tomorrow, but I wanted the two of you to know first.”

Dent hesitated, then said “Know what?”

“I’m going to be resigning.”

Dawes and Dent immediately protested.

“Don’t try to change my mind,” Finch interrupted them. “The DA’s office may have turned around while I was in charge, but we all know that was because of you two. Well, you two and those cops and that Bat. So, after I step down, one of you will serve as District Attorney for the interim. Once I make my choice, I’ll retire.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Floyd at the restaurant

“I still think we shouldn’t let you do this,” Cort said.

“Hey, bro,” Floyd said. “I told you already. If I’m going to play along, I should get a reward. This,” he said, gesturing at the food on the table, “is my reward.”

Dougherty shrugged at Cort. “He has a point. Besides, this chicken is _fantastic_.”

They were eating at a restaurant not far from the DA’s office. Some place Floyd said he’d read about in a newspaper.

“Oh hell no,” Cort said.

“It’s delicious!” Dougherty insisted with his mouth full, spraying Cort with bits of chicken in the process.

“Not the chicken. I _will_ punch you if you do that one more time,” Cort threatened, “but I’m not talking about the chicken. I’m talking about _him,_ ” he said, pointing at someone who had just entered the restaurant.

Harvey Dent.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” Floyd said. “Did he tail us?”

“Nah,” Dougherty said, “he thinks he can get somewhere without crossing lines. Must be a coincidence.”

Cort was about to respond when a screech of tires came from outside. Five men wearing balaclavas ran into the building, pointing guns at the customers and staff.

“Everybody, hands in the air!” one of the masked men yelled.

Cort went for his own gun to start shooting, but before he could fire a bullet, he was shot in the shoulder and dropped his weapon. Cort screamed in pain as he clutched his shoulder.

“See, that’s what happens if you try anything funny,” the apparent leader of the masked men said. “Funny ‘uh-oh’ _or_ funny ‘ha-ha’, in case any of you think you’re comedians.” He pointed at Dougherty. “You. Take your friend out back and don’t mess anything up.”

Cort tried to refuse, but Dougherty dragged him out the back door.

“Alright, now: you,” the leader said, pointing at Dent, “and you,” he said, pointing at Floyd, “go to the front window. You can tell us if you see the cops coming.”

Floyd and Dent did as they were told. While they were at the window, Floyd slipped the burner phone he’d gotten from the jogger into Dent’s dinner jacket. When red and blue lights flashed in the distance, they warned the robbers, who hurried out of the restaurant.

/\\-^|^-/\

The weather shouldn’t be this good. Not when he’s in a place like this.

People tend to picture cemeteries under dark, clouded and gloomy skies. Maybe it’s raining. They almost never imagine a cemetery where it’s bright, with a clear sky. They know, objectively speaking, that the weather isn’t obliged to follow people’s emotional response to the place, but it steal feels _wrong_ for a beautiful day to be happening in such a sad place.

Bruce walked towards the all-too familiar tombstones. He placed a bouquet of flowers by one tombstone, and a bottle of scotch by the other.

“Hey Mom,” Bruce said. “Hey Dad.”

He continued. “I brought you gifts. You remember that anniversary, right?” Bruce laughed softly. “You were both too busy to plan out your gifts, so _you_ ,” he said to his father, “got Mom a bottle of scotch, and _you_ ,” he said to his mother, “got Dad a bouquet of flowers. You both did the same thing on purpose every anniversary since then.”

Bruce sighed. “I still haven’t found him. Actually, I’m not trying to anymore… I’m doing something a bit different. Well, I guess I might as well tell you… I’m a vigilante. I dress up like a bat, and I solve crimes. Sometimes I help the police bring the criminals in, sometimes I help the criminals find other options. It depends. I… There’s still some stuff I’ve got to learn. Someone pointed out to me a while ago that Batman might have helped Gotham a lot, but he’s not solving the underlying problems, so… I’m going to restart the Wayne Foundation. I’m going to name it after you. But if I want to finance it properly I’m going to have to take back Wayne Enterprises first. I know you trusted Earle, but… he’s not a good man. So I’m trying to fix that.”

Bruce started to walk away, then stopped, turned around and walked back to the tombstones. “Something happened, not long ago. You remember Richard Daniels? He got to be the bank’s president after all, but… Maroni tried to get him to launder money. I convinced Richard not to, and then… then I found out that he’d been shot. A man died because of me. So, I did everything I could to track the killer down, and I did, and…” Bruce hesitated. “He has a daughter. The killer, I mean. He has a family, and even though he doesn’t see his ex-wife often, he loves his daughter. And I saw the look on that little girl’s face when she found out her Dad was a killer… It was the same look I had on mine after I found out my parents were mortal. I got a man killed and I destroyed a family trying to make up for it.”

Bruce imagined what his parents might say to him if they were there. “I know, I know, none of that was my fault… but it’s hard for me to internalise that, to accept that not being in control when bad things happen doesn’t mean I’m not trying hard enough to stop them from happening. That’s actually… that’s one of the things I’m seeing Dr Strange about. Yeah, I’m seeing a therapist. He’s helping me get better. He thinks I should focus on building relationships, that I need a safety net.”

There was a gust of wind. Bruce imagined it was his mother’s voice. _He’s right, you know_. Then his father. _Even when we were still with you, you had so many other people in your life. You need people, Bruce_. “You’re right,” Bruce said to them. “I’ll listen to what Strange tells me. Thanks for… for this. I needed to talk to you again.”


	7. The Single Life

Bruce decided to reach out to Ethan next, so they met up at a bar. Apparently it was a place that catered primarily to cops – or rather, the honest ones among them. Bruce had just finished telling Ethan about what he’d been up to since they’d been teenagers – the slightly believable version of the story, anyway.

“So, what about you?” Bruce asked. “ _Something_ interesting has to have happened to you since then.”

“Well, there’s one obvious thing,” Ethan said. “I’m a cop now. I got moved to the Skeleton Crew after I arrested a dealer called Allister Case – Narc Unit was getting paid off to let him keep pushing drugs in Agga.”

“They transferred you to the East End for that?”

“It’s what they did to all the ‘troublemakers’,” Ethan laughed. “Bit them in the ass when we made our comeback.”

“Nice,” Bruce said, raising his glass. “To karma.”

“To karma,” Ethan said, clinking his glass against Bruce’s.

Ethan was having a beer, while Bruce was having a sparkling water. Ethan had raised his eyebrows when Bruce ordered that, but said nothing.

“That’s work, though,” Bruce said. “What’s new in your personal life?”

“Well,” Ethan said, “I’m gay.”

“Huh,” Bruce said. “I’m pan.”

“Not really a surprise,” Ethan said.

Bruce shrugged in acknowledgement. “So, are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Unfortunately, no. You?”

“Single by choice. I’m not looking for a relationship right now. But, hey – if you ever need me to set you up with someone…”

“You’ll be my wingman?”

“Sure,” Bruce said.

Then they talked for a while about various things – how Ethan still visits his old neighbourhood to help out, how Bruce is planning to get the Wayne Foundation started again. That kind of thing.

At one point, Ethan recognised someone in the crowd. “Hey, is that the girl from your party?” he asked Bruce.

Bruce turned around and saw Selina Kyle. “That’s her,” he said, smiling. “Is that Sam Bradley with her?”

“You know Junior?” Ethan asked.

“ _You_ know Junior?”

“He’s Montoya’s protégé,” Ethan explained. Then he called Sam and Selina’s names to get their attention.

Selina and Sam turned around and joined Bruce and Ethan at their table. A waiter came to ask them what they’d like to drink: Selina ordered a Bacardi

“Let me guess,” Bruce said to Selina, “Sam here told you about this place?”

Selina nodded. “Apparently it’s where the Skeleton Crew used to strategize, back before that whole Triumvirate thing.”

“Ethan told me about that,” Bruce said. “What’s with this vigilante who dresses up as a bat?”

“Everybody has a different idea,” Selina said. “Some people think he’s a government operative, some people think he’s a terrorist. I don’t buy either one of those.”

“So what _do_ you think?”

“Personally, I think he’s just a normal vigilante.”

“Well,” Bruce said, shrugging. “He seems like more of a badass than most vigilantes.”

Selina rolled her eyes. “Not you too,” she said. “I’ve got two roommates who think Batman’s the closest thing to Chuck Norris. At least he’s better than the Reaper was, I’ll give him that.”

Bruce started laughing. “We’re talking about vigilantes like they’re TV shows,” he said. “Is this what the sixties were like in this town?”

“Bruce, if this was _anything_ like the sixties, at least one of us would be having an acid trip right now.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Floyd’s phone rang, so he took it out of his pocket and checked who was calling. ‘Hank DeLeon’. Cort and Dougherty were staring at him, so he showed them the phone’s screen and said, “Old friend from the ‘hood,” before answering the call.

“It’s Dent,” Harvey said on the other line. “Why’d you slip me the burner phone?”

“Chill, Hank,” Floyd laughed. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know to get Simon to hire you.”

“Good cover,” Dent said. “You’re willing to testify against Maroni?”

“What’d I _just_ say, bro?” Floyd asked, making sure Cort and Dougherty heard him. “And hey – I know that when I was working there, Lewis was always on my ass, and he’ll probably be on yours too, but I figured out how to handle him eventually.”

“Lau’s working for Maroni?” Dent guessed. “Damn. What about Cort and Dougherty?”

“ _Those_ monkeys? Yeah,” Floyd said as if it was obvious, “they’ll be trouble! But they’ll get themselves fired sooner or later.”

“Is your family safe?”

“Of _course_ I took care of that! I’m no amateur – look, I can’t exactly _come visit_ , what with this whole murder thing, but you’ll be fine.”

“Good. Once we’ve gotten rid of Lau, Cort, and Dougherty, we’ll find you another lawyer and work on that deal.”

/\\-^|^-/\

By now, Ethan and Sam had left – they both had jobs that required them to wake up early in the morning. Bruce and Selina, on the other hand, did not.

“What do you do, anyway - when you’re not running an art gallery, I mean?” Bruce asked.

“I’ll let you guess,” Selina offered. “It’s a high risk job, with high reward if I do it right, and involves a _lot_ of corporations.”

“You’re a stock trader?” Bruce guessed.

“Something like that,” Selina replied. “I have an… intuition regarding corporations. Takeovers, that kind of thing.”

“So if I told you I was planning a takeover…”

“Trying to get rid of Earle?” Selina smirked. “I thought you’d let him convinced you to sell your stake in the company.”

“Only most of it,” Bruce said. “And only so he wouldn’t suspect me later. You understand, I can’t just walk into a board meeting and tell Earle he’s fired. It wouldn’t look good.”

“You’re waiting for him to slip up. Playing the long game.” Selina grinned. “I like it.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said.

“You’re welcome,” Selina told him. “It’s not often you get to meet someone who defies all expectations.”

“Well,” Bruce said, “most expectations of me come from what the media says, and right now they’re busy speculating on who I’m going to go on a date with on Valentine’s Day.”

“I’ve seen those articles,” Selina said. “God, the pressure to find a date must be a hundred times worse for you, huh?”

“Oh, you’re familiar with the experience?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m a single woman. An _attractive_ single woman who’s uninterested in dating right now. I am _intimately_ familiar with the experience.”

“It’s going to be worse on the day itself, isn’t it?” Bruce asked. “Half the things people will say to us will be ‘how come you’re alone on Valentine’s Day?’ and that kind of thing.”

“You know, we could spend the day under the radar,” Selina suggested.

“Do you mean ‘you-and-me-together’ we or ‘you-and-me-individually’ we?” Bruce asked.

“Whichever one you prefer.”

“Together, then,” Bruce said. “It’s a…”

“A non-date?” Selina suggested.

“A non-date,” Bruce agreed. “Maybe a Basil Carlo movie marathon?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You’re _sure_ we can trust him?” Sam asked.

“As sure as I can be,” Harvey replied. “But it doesn’t matter: this is _our chance_. If this goes well, Maroni will end up in prison and _we’ll_ get the credit.”

“Well, if it means putting Maroni away,” Sam agreed hesitantly. “Fine. So, if what he told you is true, that means Lau, Cort, and Dougherty are all in Maroni’s pocket?”

“Yep,” Harvey nodded. “And I think he tried to tell me he has a plan – he’ll make them slip up and we’ll catch them in the act.”

“Cort and Dougherty already have,” Sam said. “Lawton’s on house arrest, they shouldn’t have let him go outside except to go to court, and he’s been out of the house at _least_ twice: once for the restaurant, once to _get_ that burner phone in the first place.”

“Good. We can use that to look into them,” Dent said. “We’ll need to get Lau involved too, but I’ll take care of that. What about Lawton’s next lawyer?”

“How about Jeffords?” Sam asked.

“If you can get him to work _with_ us and not against us, sure. That just leaves one thing: what will the rest of your Skeleton Crew think of this?”

“I’ll talk to them,” Sam said.

/\\-^|^-/\

Holly, Arizona, and Selina were eating Chinese take-out while arguing about whether Selina was technically going on a date on Valentine’s Day or not.

“For the last time,” Selina said, “it’s not a date!”

“It is _totally_ a date,” Holly said. “The two of you have great chemistry, half your interactions are basically flirting-“

“We’ve never flirted,” Selina insisted.

“And every time you do something together, you can’t stop talking about him for the rest of the day,” Holly finished. “And now you’re spending the most romance-obsessed day of the _year_ together. Face it: you’re into each other, and this is a date.”

“I agree with Holly,” Arizona said. “You two are going on a date.”

“It’s not a date!” Selina repeated.

“Okay,” Arizona said. “If you’re sure…” but as she got up from the table and walked out of the living room, she started singing, “Bruce and Selina, sitting in a tree....”

Selina threw an egg roll at her.

/\\-^|^-/\

“It’s a date, lad,” Alfred said.

“It’s not a date,” Bruce insisted stubbornly. “We’re just two single people spending Valentine’s Day together.”

“Really?” Harriet asked. “Really? Just ‘two single people’? Boy, do you think either one of us is buying that?”

“It doesn’t matter what you’re buying, it’s true,” Bruce said.

“He’s right,” Alfred said to Harriet, “they really _are_ just two single people… who obviously fancy each other and want to shag.”

“We do _not_ fancy each other, Alfred,” Bruce claimed.

“You know,” Harriet noted, “the first stage of attraction is exactly the same as the first stage of grief: denial.”

“I’m not in denial,” Bruce said, even though he knew trying to convince them was futile.

“The last stage is the same too – acceptance,” Harriet continued. “It’s the stuff in between that’s different.”

“Although I really wish they’d skip straight to the acceptance part,” Alfred said, “because this isn’t a bloody sitcom.”

“A sitcom wouldn’t be as weird, though,” Harriet said. “I mean, how many sitcom characters are also vigilantes who wear animal costumes?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sam approached his mentor in the GCPD precinct.

“Montoya, can I ask you something?” he said.

“Ask away, junior,” Montoya told him, smiling.

“I know you and the rest of the crew worked with Batman to take down Loeb, Falcone, and Branden,” Sam began, “but… Batman’s technically a criminal. So does that mean it’s okay to cross lines if it’s for the greater good?”

“It depends,” Montoya answered. “Which lines are you planning on crossing?”

“Dent thinks Lawton can testify against Maroni. He wants me to help him make that happen, and to do that we’ll have to replace Lawton’s lawyer.”

“Lau Wei works for Maroni, doesn’t he?” the Sergeant asked. When her protégé nodded, she sighed. “And you want to replace him with who? Jeffords?”

“That’s what Dent and I were thinking,” Sam admitted. “Do you think we should go for it?”

“If it means taking down Falcone… sure. But you’ll have to convince Essen to sign off on it too.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce and Selina had agreed to spend the day at her place – after all, Selina’s apartment attracted far fewer paparazzi than Wayne Manor did, and a photographer would find it much easier to hide in the gardens of that mansion than in a downtown skyscraper, making the apartment a much better locale for their ‘off-the-radar non-date’.

“Bruce,” Arizona greeted the billionaire when he arrived. “I see you decided to go for smart casual.” This meaning a bomber jacket, jeans, and a grey t-shirt. “Good choice,” Arizona said, “sets you apart from the rest of Selina’s dates, they’re always wearing suits.”

“It’s not a date!” Bruce and Selina said in unison.

“…Right,” Arizona said after giving them a long look. “Just remember to use protection.” When she saw her roommate and the billionaire blushing, Arizona grinned and walked out the door. “I shall see you later today _or_ tomorrow morning depending on how well tonight goes,” she said before closing the door.

“So…” Bruce said. “Does she _have_ a date already, or is she looking for one?”

“She’s been dating some neurosurgeon called Vladimir Morakov for about two weeks now,” Selina said.

“I think I’ve heard of that guy,” Bruce said. He looked around. “Holly doesn’t seem to be here either.”

“She’s at a Scare Tactics concert with a bunch of her friends from school. Apparently her friend Bette has an aunt who was a stunt double for Nina Skorzeny.”

“Lucky kid,” Bruce said. “So, speaking of stars from the Clayface movies… shall we?” he said, gesturing to Selina’s futon.

“We shall,” Selina replied with a grin. “Are we watching the movies in chronological order, or starting with the one that made him famous?”

“As much as I liked ‘Clayface’, I’m going to go for chronological.”

“’The Ballad of Jonah Hex,’ it is,” Selina said.

/\\-^|^-/\

Lau Wei had a comfortable penthouse uptown. Every morning, around nine, he left the penthouse, visited the coffee shop five blocks down the street (Pioneers’ Perk, a play on the name of the city’s largest park), ordered a latte and a cruller, and sat down at the same table by the window.

Usually, he had the table to himself, but this time there was already somebody there.

“The problem with having a routine,” Harvey Dent said, “is that it makes you predicable. Crullers are great, but personally I prefer bear claws.”

“What do you want?” Wei said.

“Just wondering how and why you became a lawyer,” Dent said in a bored tone of voice. “Didn’t you used to be a trader?”

“I decided to trade careers,” Wei told him, then chuckled at his own joke.

“Really? Are you sure Maroni didn’t help you with that?” Dent asked. “I’m onto you, Lau. And whatever you have on Lawton to keep him playing along, you might want to make sure you _actually_ have it.” With that, Dent got up and left the coffee shop.

/\\-^|^-/\

The credits of ‘Clayface III’ were scrolling past the screen.

“You know,” Selina said, “this movie gets a lot of flak for being derivative of the original, but when you think about it, the similarities end with the plot.”

“I know, right?” Bruce said. “In the original movie, Clayface was an unsympathetic sociopath, but here he seems to genuinely care for Skorzeny’s character. And she’s not nearly as similar to the reporter in the first movie as people say.”

“Exactly!” Selina said. “But enough about the _good_ sequels,” she said, smiling sadistically. “It’s time for Clayface IV.”

“Do we have to?” Bruce groaned.

“A marathon is a marathon,” Selina shrugged. “Come on, we have three more Clayface movies to get through _and_ the first attempt at a Lightbringer movie before we can watch Carlo singlehandedly save the robot apocalypse genre.”

“Fine,” Bruce said, getting up. “But we’re going to need alcohol.”

“There’s Bacardi in the kitchen cabinet,” Selina told him.

“You really like Bacardi, don’t you?” Bruce asked as he took out the beverage and two glasses to drink from.

“It’s Cuban, I’m half-Cuban,” Selina said. “And don’t take out the regular glasses, we’re doing _shots!_ ”

“As in a drinking game?” Bruce asked while putting the regular glasses back and getting two shot glasses from the cabinet instead.

When Bruce put the bottle and glasses on the coffee table, Selina explained, “Every time there’s a cheese one liner, take a shot.”

Somehow they managed to get through the movie without getting absolutely hammered.

“You know what gets me?” Bruce said. “Since she appeared in the second movie, Nina Skorzeny’s character had been happy being single – until this one. We don’t even get a reason, she’s just suddenly a completely different character just so Clayface can get a romantic subplot to go with his redemption arc”

“Honestly, having Inspector Eriksen play a part in Clayface’s redemption arc would have been fine if it _hadn’t_ been for that romantic subplot. The only way that pairing would even work is if we had the badass Inspector from the second and third movies with the anti-hero Clayface from the sixth.”

“Inspector Eriksen was at her best when she was happy with the single life,” Bruce agreed.

“I know that’s neither cheesy nor a one-liner,” Selina said, filling her shot glass, “but I feel like that’s a great opportunity for a toast.” She passed the Bacardi to Bruce, who filled his own shot glass.

“To the single life!” They said, clinking their glasses together and taking the shots.

Then they looked at each other and there was a spark. For just a fraction of a second, there was a connection that neither of them could really explain… and neither of them was sure they _wanted_ to hear the explanation. That didn’t stop a heavy silence from falling between them.

“Next movie?” Selina said, breaking the silence at last.

“Next movie,” Bruce agreed, grabbing the remote and focusing on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do Bruce and Selina get together? Well, not yet. As much as I love these two together, I want to explore them with other people first, and if I actually DID have them get together, I couldn't bring myself to break them up, however briefly. Having them be polyamorous IS an option, but for not one I'm currently considering for these two characters in this story and the sequels.  
> Also: yes, it's after Valentine's Day. As I said in the notes to my latest chapter for my Shamy fanfic, I had plans and writer's block, hence why I ended up behind schedule.


	8. Deal or no Deal

**Thirty-One Months Ago**

Sarah and Kristen met at the pier.

“I remember this,” Sarah said, smiling. “Back before… well, you know.”

“Before you pissed off the corrupt half of the force?” Kristen asked. “Yeah, I know.” Then she smiled. “We had some good times here.”

“We did,” Sarah agreed. “Kristen, are you sure? About – well, about this?”

“I am. Nygma is guilty, I know it, but he’s a smart little bastard. One of us will have to get close to him to prove it – and you’d be too obvious.” Kristen took a deep breath. “That means it will have to be me.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “Just…” She hugged Kristen, and once the hug ended, she kept her hands on Kristen’s shoulders. “Be careful.”

Sarah decided to do what they’d agreed they wouldn’t do anymore, and kissed Kristen.

“Sarah…” Kristen said, shocked.

“I _know_ ,” Sarah said. “I was the one who said we couldn’t be together anymore, and I remember _why_ I decided that, and I still don’t want Loeb trying to use you to control me… but I still wish we could be.”

“Maybe, after this _campaign_ of yours is over…” Kristen said. “We will be?”

“Yeah,” Sarah laughed. “Maybe.”

**The Present Day**

 “Commissioner Essen, did you know Detective Kringle before the two of you decided to investigate my client?” Jeffords asked.

“Yes,” Essen said. “We knew each other.”

“And what was the nature of your relationship?” Jeffords asked her.

“We were colleagues for a long time. And, for a short time, we dated.”

“Really?” Jeffords said. “Did you still have feelings for her when she came to you with her suggestion?”

“I did,” Essen said.

“And is it possible that she came to you because she _knew_ you still had feelings for her and would be more inclined to believe her?”

“Objection!” Dawes interrupted. “Calls for speculation.”

“I’ll amend my phrasing,” Jeffords said. “Is it possible that Detective Kringle knew you still had feelings for her at the time?”

“Yes,” Essen said. “It’s possible.”

“And is it possible that those feelings affected your judgment of her conclusions?”

“I believe Detective Kringle’s conclusions were correct.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes,” Essen said through gritted teeth. “It’s possible.”

“One last question,” Jeffords told her. “How much money did Detective Kringle have?”

“About as much as any other GCPD detective at the time,” Essen said. “Just enough for a small midtown apartment.”

“Thank you,” Jeffords said. He returned to his bench, then turned to the judge. “Your honour, I would like to submit _this_ file,” he said, picking up a file and handing it to the judge, “which shows that Detective Kringle made several payments to a shell corporation located upstate before her disappearance.”

“And what is this supposed to show?” the judge asked.

“It suggests that Detective Kringle was preparing to disappear,” Jeffords said. “And given what Commissioner Essen has just told us, it’s possible that she arranged the investigation into my client and her own disappearance – now, I won’t speculate as to why, although these payments do raise the question of how she got the money given her financial situation, but I’d say this is enough to create reasonable doubt that my client did not kill her. And I believe _that_ was the prosecution’s main argument for my client’s guilt here.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“So, how did your date with Selina go?” Alfred asked.

“Not a date, and I don’t want to talk about it,” Bruce replied.

“You screwed it up,” Alfred guessed. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, Alfred,” Bruce said.

“Oh,” Alfred nodded in understanding. “What did _she_ do?”

“She didn’t do anything either,” Bruce told his butler.

“Well _somebody_ had to have screwed it up.”

“There was no screwing!” Bruce said, jolting out of his chair, suddenly agitated.

“Alright,” Alfred said, hands raised in mock surrender. “But if there was no screwing, what happened?”

“There was… a spark,” Bruce said.

“It’s about bloody time!” Alfred said, grinning. “Wait,” he said as his grin vanished. “If there was a ‘spark’, why the hell are you two not together yet?”

“Because… the last time I felt a spark like that was with Rachel, and I ruined things with her. I don’t want to ruin things with Selina too.”

“Bruce, you’re not the same person you were back then. _That_ Bruce would never have agreed to go to therapy, or reduce patrol time so he could get a healthy amount of sleep, or any of the things you’ve been doing to get better. You’re not going to hurt Selina.”

“I might,” Bruce said. “I’m just… I’m not ready to be serious. Friendships are fine, but dating? I don’t know if I could balance that with Batman. And if I can’t, then I’ll end up driving someone I care about away again”

“Oh for…” Alfred muttered, throwing his hands up in the air and walking out of the study.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honour.”

Essen glared at Nygma. Nygma smirked back at her.

“Not guilty,” the juror said at last.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “So?” Arizona asked, smiling. “How did your ‘not-a-date’ go?”

“I’d rather not talk about that right now,” Selina said, trying to find a way to avoid _that_ conversation indefinitely.

Arizona’s smile turned into a frown. “He screwed it up,” she guessed. “What did he do?” Selina was about to say that Bruce didn’t do anything, but Arizona kept talking. “Do I need to talk to him? Egg his car? Befriend him and give him a really ugly bracelet as a gift, so he won’t want to wear it but he’ll do it anyway to avoid upsetting me, then I’d steal it and hide it somewhere so he’d have to go through a long and embarrassing series of events to get it back?”

“No!” Selina said at last. “No, don’t do any of those things, Bruce didn’t do anything, he didn’t screw it up. That’s not what happened.”

“Oh,” Arizona said, looking at Selina knowingly. “ _You_ screwed it up. What did you do?”

“I didn’t screw it up either! Nobody screwed it up!”

“Well _someone_ had to, because screwed up it was.”

“There was no screwing up!”

“Okay, I believe you,” Arizona lied. “So if you didn’t screw it up, and _he_ didn’t screw it up, what happened?”

Selina sighed. “There was a spark.”

Arizona’s smile returned – now she was grinning from ear to ear. And shaking with excitement, so much that Selina was worried her friend would accidentally vibrate into another universe. “Oh my God, a spark! You haven’t had a spark in _years_ , this is a cause for celebration!” Then she stopped. “Wait… If there was a spark, why aren’t you two together?”

“Because I’m not _ready_ to feel the spark again,” Selina snarled. She practically collapsed in her chair. “The last time I felt the spark it turned into an inferno,” she said with a hollow voice, “and by the time _that_ ended, I’d been burned.”

“Selina, Bruce isn’t David,” Arizona said gently, taking Selina’s hand and looking into her eyes. “I know after what happened with him, you were in a bad place, but… Bruce won’t do that to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t,” Arizona admitted, looking away. “But you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten close enough to him to feel that spark in the first place.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sergeant Montoya and Detective Bradley entered Commissioner Essen’s office.

“Montoya, Bradley,” Essen greeted them. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bradley said. “I… uh…”

“Bradley’s teaming up with Dent to take down Maroni,” Montoya explained. “They’re going to make a deal with Lawton and he’s going to testify against the son of a bitch.”

“And you want me to sign off on it?” Essen guessed. “I don’t see why not.”

“Actually,” Bradley said, “there is _one_ reason why you wouldn’t want to sign off on what we’re going to do: Lawton’s lawyer works for Maroni, and so do his house arrest officers. We-we’re going to get rid of them, then get Lawton a new lawyer, and… and, uh, Dent has a pretty good idea of who that other lawyer would be.”

Essen stood up and looked Bradley in the eye. “Are you trying to tell me you want to bring Jeffords onto this case as Lawton’s new attorney?”

Bradley gulped, but nodded.

“Then do it,” Essen said. “Just remember that if the sh** hits the fan, you two and Dent will be the ones cleaning the mess up, and if that happens, you’d better not miss a single spot.”

Bradley nodded again. Montoya said, “Understood, Commissioner.”

“Montoya, dismissed,” Essen said. “Bradley, there’s one more thing I want to say to you.”

Montoya looked at Bradley and mouthed ‘good luck’, then walked out of Essen’s office.

“Y-Yes ma’am?” Bradley asked Essen, eyes darting around the room.

“Montoya told me that _you_ were the one teaming up with Dent – which suggests to me that you’re the one bringing us this case. Now, I don’t care if Dent came to you or you came to him, you just got the GCPD the biggest case we’ve had since Calabrase was running the city. You’ve got balls. So start _acting_ like it. You have nobody you need to impress but yourself.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Lawton walked out of the bathroom to find Cort and Dougherty glaring at him. There was a phone in Dougherty’s hand.

“S’up fellas?” Lawton said, smiling.

“Lau called,” Dougherty said.

Cort whipped out a taser and shocked Lawton, then the two cops forced Lawton into a chair and tied him to it by his arms and legs.

“Damn,” Lawton said. “What did Lau _tell_ you?”

“Apparently, your daughter and your ex-wife are nowhere to be seen,” Dougherty said. “Did you tell them something?”

“Yeah, Susan asked me how long I’d been an assassin, I asked her if she remembered our honeymoon, and then she slapped me. Don’t you remember that?”

“Shut up,” Cort said. Then, for good measure, he socked Lawton in the jaw. And then he clutched his hand in pain and screamed.

“Oh, you don’t want to do _that_ ,” Lawton said. “You could break your hand on the bone. In fact, I think you just did.”

Dougherty stepped forward. “Where exactly _was_ this honeymoon of yours?”

“Starling City,” Lawton replied. “No, wait… it was Hub City. Or was it St Roch? Look, I know for sure that we stayed at a hotel for most of that time. What about you?”

Dougherty balled his fists, when Lau stepped through the door.

“Enough,” Lau said sharply. “ _I’ll_ get him to talk. You two were only supposed to put him in the chair, not beat him.” He put on a pair of knuckle-dusters and glared at Lawton. “You should have played along,” he growled.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Mr Wayne, I appreciate the offer,” Travis Brydon said, “but I’m going to have to decline. I’m not selling my stock.” He gave the paperwork back to Bruce, unsigned.

“I don’t think you understand,” Bruce said, handing Travis a check. “Here is the sum I’m prepared to pay you – and that’s just the down payment.”

Travis’ eyes bulged. “This could put _both_ my kids through college.”

“Family is a great investment,” Bruce agreed. “Just like WellZyn. But I’d say you’re better off investing in family if you have one. What do you say?”

Travis took back the paperwork, picked up his pen, and signed it.

“Thank you, Mr Brydon,” Bruce said with a smile.

“Mr Wayne, I put a lot of effort into making this company what it is,” Travis said. “And now you’re going to control what happens to it. Please treat it right.”

“I will, Mr Brydon,” Bruce promised.

/\\-^|^-/\

Lawton laughed, coughing up blood and one of his teeth – a premolar from his upper jaw.

“Do you think you can hit me a little more to the back? I’ve got a wisdom tooth that hurts like hell,” he said to Lau, still laughing.

“I’m losing my patience,” Lau said.

“Well, you wouldn’t _be_ losing your _patients_ if you’d remove the teeth they wanted to get rid of!” Lawton said.

Lau yelled incoherently and punched Lawton in the gut. Lawton kept laughing.

“Oh, I’ve got an itch… ‘down there’,” Floyd said. “Do you think you could take care of that for me?”

“I’ve _seen_ that movie,” Lau growled, before punching Lawton’s kidney.

“You know torture doesn’t _actually_ work, right?” Lawton asked. “What the _hell_ is this Dubya bullcrap you’re pulling here anyway?”

“Just tell us what we want to know,” Lau said, gritting his teeth. “And this will all be over.”

From the corner of his eye, Lawton saw a car parking in the driveway. A woman and a man got out, and both of them had guns. Lawton was pretty sure the man was Detective Bradley.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. Just one thing I gotta know first though.”

“What?”

“Did you call for backup, or are the two people in that car in the driveway coming here to _arrest_ your asses?”

“ _What?_ ” Lau repeated, looking out of the window, right as the front door was kicked down by the woman. Bradley glanced at the window and saw Lau.

“They’re in the living room!” Bradley shouted.

The woman burst into the living room, aiming her gun at Lau. “GCPD!”

Cort and Dougherty aimed their own guns at her, but she spun around, shot Cort in the shoulder, and lunged at Dougherty, grabbing his wrist and releasing his gun’s ammo clip. She kicked the ammo clip away from Dougherty and elbowed the corrupt cop in the throat, then swept his legs out from under him to knock him on the ground.

“Not the way you were wishing you’d get swept of your feet, is it?” she taunted him.

Meanwhile, Lau tried to sneak out of the living room but found Bradley standing in the way with another gun.

/\\-^|^-/\

Jefford was in his office when his phone rang.

“You’re speaking to Jake Jeffords, Defence Attorney,” he said.

“Jeffords,” Dent said on the other end of the line. “How would you like to work together for once?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a guy who wants to make a deal – but he needs to have a lawyer present to do it.”

“And this guy is…”

“Floyd Lawton.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Okay…” Arizona said. “Are you _sure_ the costume is necessary?”

“What are you talking about?” Selina asked. “I look _purr_ -fect.”

“Yes!” Holly cheered, fist pumping. “You’ve finally started making cat puns!”

“I still say you shouldn’t be wearing a costume,” Arizona said. “You’re a cat burglar, you’re not supposed to be conspicuous.”

“But this is much more fun,” Selina said. “And I think we’ve established by now that I don’t need to be boring to be a good thief.”

Selina was wearing thigh-high black leather boots, a purple velour catsuit, black leather gloves (with a special _contraption_ Holly had come up with fitted onto the fingers), goggles, and a purple mask with cat ears. There was a satchel at her waist, and a whip holster on her left hip with a bullwhip inside.

“So,” Holly asked. “What’s your… I mean ‘Catwoman’s’ first target?”

Selina smirked at the nickname as she applied the final touch to her costume: purple lipstick. “I’m thinking… the Gotham City Mall. Let’s go for jewellery this time. Start with Tiffany & Co. and make our way down to Buccellati.”

“Didn’t those stores all _seriously_ step up their security last month?” Holly asked.

“What, did you think I chose them because I really liked jewellery?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Jeffords finished looking over the agreement. “This all seems to be in order,” he confirmed, then turned to Lawton, handing him the papers. “You sign these, and you’ll be testifying against Salvatore Maroni in exchange for a reduced sentence and visits from your family. You’re sure you want to do this, right?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” Lawton said.

Dent handed Lawton a pen and Lawton signed the agreement.

“Let’s take that son of a bitch Maroni _down_!” Dent cheered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Nygma's trial was a bit rushed, but I wanted to be able to focus on with Dent and Lawton's deal, because it's going to be pretty important in the rest of the story.  
> Also, Kristen is only the first character I'm getting from Gotham.  
> So, what do you all think?


	9. Doubt and Pain

**Twenty-Five Years Ago**

“I can’t do this,” Jack said.

Carmine put down his beer, sat back in his seat, and asked “What do you mean?”

“Carmine, I’m the _mayor_ , I ran on a promise to end organised crime, and I’m _drinking buddies_ with the goddamn _kingpin_ of Gotham?”

“Don’t call me that,” Carmine muttered.

“I can’t be a hypocrite anymore – it’s not right, and for that matter, it’s not safe. What if somebody sees us?”

“I’ll keep them quiet,” Carmine shrugged. “Your reputation will be safe.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Jack hissed. “Look at everything you’ve done, everything you’re willing to do – how am I supposed to condone that?”

“You _know_ why I’m doing this,” Carmine reminded Jack.

“I know why you _started_ it. And I know what your excuse for still doing it is. But I can’t be a part of this anymore – Gotham doesn’t _need_ to be ruled by the mobs.”

“Find me a better option, and I’ll move to Florida,” Carmine said, “but there _is_ no better option.”

“Yes there is!” Jack said, standing up. “Justice. And I’m going to make sure that _justice_ is done.” With that, he stormed out of the bar.

Carmine finished his beer and ordered another. He stayed in the booth, alone, until he finished it.

_He’s a father,_ Carmine told himself. _He wants to be able to look his son in the eye and call himself a good man._ But however understandable Jack Gordon’s motives were, Carmine knew he couldn’t let the mayor erase everything he’d achieved. He wrote down _Jack has to go_ on a note, and left the booth with the note in his hand. He passed the bar’s singer as he left, and discretely handed the note to her.

**The Present Day**

Coleman Reese had just been caught by surprise, which didn’t happen often.

It started when he received a call from Jean Abbot, one of his clients, who’d told him that Bruce Wayne had bought a majority share in AbboTech.

“What?” Reese had said. “Since when has Wayne been interested in buying stock? And no offense, but your company is smaller than what I’d expect someone with his kind of money to go for.”

“I know, Coleman,” Abbot had replied. “But he’s got a controlling stake now – for all intents and purposes, he _owns_ my company. I need know my position in AbboTech is still secure.”

“I’ll look into it,” Reese had promised. “I get the feeling he’s up to something, and once I know what I’ll do everything I can to keep you running AbboTech.”

That had been the surprise. What he found once he _did_ look into it was a shock: Bruce Wayne had bought two other companies – WellZyn and Pinewood Farms – in the past week, and set up three different shell corporations. Wayne was up to _something_ , and Coleman Reese decided in that moment that he’d find out what that something was.

/\\-^|^-/\

Salvatore Maroni was a busy man: most of his day was taken up by managing a moderately successful crime family and negotiating with other crime families. At the end of the day, he had some time to himself, during which the first thing he did was turn on his computer and check his emails.

Normally, he only found business correspondence, social media notifications, and the like (and spam, obviously) but today he found something interesting. The email was anonymous, but the subject line caught Maroni’s eye: ‘Falcone and Vitti’. When he clicked on it, he found that the email only contained an audio recording and one line of text that said “Do with this what you will.”

Maroni played the recording.

“ _What about Johnny?_ ” Sofia Gigante said. “ _If he keeps disobeying your orders, he could be a problem._ ”

“ _I’ll take care of it,_ ” Falcone replied.

“ _Who are you going to give the hit to?_ ”

“ _I’ll let the best man handle it._ ”

Well.

This was interesting. Maroni could _use_ this.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Now _what_ ,” Harvey Dent said, “could a _billionaire_ be doing in a restaurant as small as this one? Isn’t there a five-star one somewhere uptown?”

“There is,” Bruce admitted. “But those have _terrible_ customer service. They only put in the effort when they know a food critic’s there, and then it’s only when they don’t know who the critic _is_. But I’m not here for as a customer.”

“Then why _are_ you here?” Harvey asked. “Not that I mind.”

“I’m thinking of buying it.” When Harvey gave him a _look_ , Bruce elaborated: “I heard there was a robbery here not too long ago, and from what I can gather the owners couldn’t afford theft insurance, so I’m here to solve that problem.”

“ _That_ ’s generous of you,” Harvey said. “Just promise me you won’t change the staff or the menus.”

“I won’t,” Bruce said. “I’ll even let the owner choose who to buy the ingredients from.”

Harvey smiled. “You know, I think this could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

“Casablanca.”

“Gesundheit.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Selina!” Sam said. “Great to see you again.”

“Great to see you too,” Selina replied. “I’m _really_ starting to like this bar of yours.”

“Yeah, it’s something about the atmosphere,” Sam said.

“Or the rum,” Selina suggested.

“That too,” Sam laughed.

“Their Bacardi is really good,” they said at the same time.

Selina looked at Sam. “Sam, this could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

“Casablanca.”

“Gesundheit.”

/\\-^|^-/\

When Dent got to the DA’s office, he saw a familiar figure waiting there for him – that permanent scowl, and the clenched fists and jaw were dead giveaways.

“Dent,” Judson Caspian growled. “What the hell are you doing making a deal with that killer?”

“Lawton’s a killer, sure,” Dent said, “but he’s helping me take down Maroni.”

“You shouldn’t _need_ one monster’s help to take down another monster. Let Lawton rot, and go after Maroni without him.”

“And without any evidence to go on?” Dent questioned. “There’s this thing called _due process_ , Caspian.”

Caspian somehow managed to scowl even _more_ , but said nothing. Dent walked past him and entered the building.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Bruce,” Earle said with a grin. “I didn’t expect to see _you_ here.”

“Well, I heard there was a stock exchange on,” Bruce said, “and thought I’d drop by. You know, see how our company is doing.”

“Well I have _great_ news for you,” Earle told him. “There’s a lot of complicated economic mumbo-jumbo that I’ll skip over for your benefit, but our stocks are through the roof, and the company’s future is secure.” Bruce noticed that Earle was twisting his cufflinks while saying this.

He’d been doing the exact same thing when he ‘convinced’ Bruce to sell off most of his stake in Wayne Enterprises.

“You don’t seem… _fully_ happy about that,” Bruce remarked.

“Well,” Earle said, “I’ll admit, I was hoping for more of our stocks to be bought by Villa-Nye Incorporated or LexCorp, not AbboTech, Star Labs or WellZyn, but business is business. Besides, we still got Pinewood Farms into our top five investors!” Earle finished cheerfully.

Bruce laughed along with Earle and kept the conversation going for a little while, but his mind was focused on what Earle had just told him – he had a good idea of which corporations Earle would want investing in Wayne Enterprises, and he didn’t think Pinewood Farms would have been one of them. Fortunately, Bruce could easily look into that at some point, seeing as he was the owner. As for Star Labs… Bruce hadn’t tried to purchase them because the company was too large, but he figured Earle would _want_ a company of that size as an investor. So what was the difference between LexCorp or Villa-Nye and Star Labs?

Weapons. Star Labs was the only one of the three that didn’t make weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lawton story arc is only tangiential to this chapter, sure - but there's a few scenes setting up plot arcs that will be important later in this story. See if you can guess which ones they are.


	10. Catwoman Returns

Heists are so much easier when architects are considerate enough to make their vents large enough to fit a person.

Unfortunately, the people who designed the headquarters of the Diamond Society were aware of that and decided _not_ to make things more convenient for the thieves. Fortunately, there are other ways to pull off a heist.

Everything was in place for Selina’s plan. She was suited up and standing over the skylight. With her multitool, she picked the lock and opened the window. Then she put the multitool back in her side bag (every cat burglar needed somewhere to keep their gear and loot).

The next step was setting up the rappelling gear: Selina anchored the rappelling line to the roof, put on the harness and attached the other end of the line to the harness. She tightened the straps on the harness – and on her bag – before climbing through the window and slowly making her way down to the floor.

Most attempts at rappelling required an anchor at the bottom, but Selina had paid the right people for a harness designed so that the rope could be anchored to it, behind the clip and the grigri. As Selina descended, the rope moved through the latter. Eventually, the rope tightened and pulled the anchor closer to the clip.

Once her feet hit the floor, Selina undid the clip and let the rope hang loose. She kept the harness on, though, in case she had to make a quick escape.

Selina took note of her surroundings: she was in the main atrium, standing in the middle of the room. There were two balconies on opposite sides of the atrium, the one to her right being much closer. There was also a chandelier directly above the centre of the floor. There were several exhibits around her, though she was looking for a specific five… yep, there they were, in glass cases on metal podiums that Selina knew had pressure sensors inside.

She turned on the headphones and microphone attached to her mask. “Holly,” she whispered. “How long do I have?”

“ _The cameras stop looping last night’s footage in four minutes,_ ” her protégé – currently watching the cameras’ footage in the getaway car – replied.

“Perfect,” Selina grinned.

She took out her glass cutters and got to work on the nearest exhibit, thinking aloud as she worked. “ _Five_ Faberge eggs? Eh, who am I to judge?” She cut a round hole in the glass and took out one of the glass weights in her bag, then quickly took the egg out and left the weight in its place. Hopefully she was quick enough to fool the sensors, but if she wasn’t then the silent alarm had just gone off.

“Either I got that right, or the cops are going to be here in seven minutes twenty seconds,” Selina said to herself, moving on to the next egg. “Or less. Their record for this part of time is two minutes fourteen.” She held back a laugh. “Like I need the extra fourteen seconds.”

She repeated the same ritual for that egg, and the third one – but as she was taking that third egg out of its case, there was a loud clatter. Selina turned her head to pinpoint the source of the noise to see…

“Merkel,” Selina growled, dropping the glass weight what she knew was a second too late. “Are you crashing one of my heists again?”

Peter Merkel dusted himself off. “Cat,” he said with a nod. “I’d hardly call this _your_ heist, but I’ll humour you. Why on _Earth_ did you make yourself a _costume_?”

“I wanted to,” Selina said. “And this _is_ my heist. Let me guess: you want the payoff for the Faberge eggs too?” When Merkel replied in the affirmative, Selina scoffed. “I’ve already got three, you’ve got none. And I’m going for the fourth now.” With that, she approached the next exhibit and started to cut the glass. “You’ll want to hurry up if you want to steal that last one,” she told him. “Thanks to your little _distraction_ , the silent alarm’s been set off. How long do you think it will take Gotham’s finest to show up?”

Merkel ignored her and got to work on the fifth – and largest – Faberge egg.

“I mean, this precinct’s record is two minutes fourteen seconds,” Selina taunted her rival, “and we’ve already spent _forty_ seconds arguing. Tick-tock, tick-tock.” Almost done… with the police on the way, there was no need to replace this egg with a glass weight, so she just put it in her bag. “You can have that last one,” she told Merkel as she collected the weights she’d already used. “I’ll be back for it later.”

“The offer was all five or no payment!” Merkel protested.

“Then you’ll just have to try to get the other four _from_ me,” Selina said, attaching the rope to her harness again. This was the difficult part: Selina ran towards the wall, then leapt off the ground and grabbed a balcony. She climbed on top of the balustrade, then adjusted her rope so that it was the right length.

“Bye!” she said to Merkel, who was now scrambling back into the vent. Selina kicked off of the balustrade, using her momentum to bring herself closer to the chandelier, and landing on top of it. The chandelier was hanging from the skylight by a chain – Selina climbed up the chain, then reached to the open window. She grabbed the window frame with her left hand, then quickly did the same with her right. Finally she pulled herself up and out of the window.

“Holly,” Selina said into the microphone. “Are there any police cars near you?”

“ _Not yet,_ ” Holly said, “ _but there will be_. _Also, bad news: you took too long to get out of there. The cameras caught you._ ”

“Well,” Selina said. “That makes things interesting.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Earle was always a punctual man, and as usual he arrived five minutes before the start of the board meeting.

And yet it was already underway when he got there.

“What’s going on here?” Earle asked. Then he recognised the young man at the head of the table.

“Oh, I rescheduled the meeting,” Bruce Wayne said. “There was a memo, didn’t I leave it on your desk?” he asked.

“Bruce, what are you doing? You can’t just reschedule the board meetings.”

“Actually, I can: see, I’ll skip over the complicated stuff for you, but the short version is I have a controlling stake again. I want to be more involved in running my company, which means I have to attend these meetings and in general learn more about what’s going on – _but_ I have a thing later, so I had to move the board meeting back by ten minutes. Hence the memo.”

“There was no memo!” Earle said.

“Go into your office and check,” Bruce told him.

So Earle stormed out of the board room and into his office, to find a memo sitting on his desk.

He stormed back into the board room. “You should have given it to my secretary,” he said. “Then she’d have called me and let me know there was a memo for me.”

“Noted,” Bruce said. “Anyway, what’s this about the military contract?”

“Ah, yes,” Lucius Fox said. “If we don’t renew our contract with the military, it will go to Villa-Nye instead. And they’re already trying to buy us out, we do _not_ want to give them this advantage. Whether we go ahead with a merger or not, the playing field should be tilted in _our_ favour.”

“But?” Bruce asked.

“There is no but!” Earle said. “Fox is right, we should renew the contract!”

“But,” Lucius said, side-eyeing Earle, “there’s been a public backlash against military contractors, including some frankly _disturbing_ allegations. We should steer clear of that.”

“I see,” Bruce said. And just like that, Earle knew there was no way he could end this now, not before Bruce made one of those idealistic decisions the Waynes seemed so prone to. So the meeting went on.

Once the explanations were over, Bruce said, “So we have two weeks to renew it? Good. That will give us time to think of actual, concrete alternatives. Once we know what our options are, we can decide.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Hey kid,” Montoya said, “we’ve got a case.”

“We have?” Bradley asked, smiling. “What are we looking into?”

“Oh, you’ll like this,” Montoya told him, showing him the case file. “You’re familiar with the Diamond Society?”

“Bunch of rich people who show off and sell their expensive bling?”

“Exactly,” Montoya said. “Last night, five Faberge eggs were stolen from the Society’s headquarters. The thieves hacked the cameras so they were just showing the previous night’s footage, but they came back online just in time to get us twenty seconds of footage.”

“Thieves, plural?” Bradley asked, opening the file and finding two stills from the footage, zoomed in on two different figures.

“We don’t know who the chick in the cat outfit is,” Montoya told him, “but this guy going into the vent? He’s Peter Merkel. Triple-jointed contortionist, and a freaking pain in the ass. So far we haven’t managed to take him down. He’s the whole reason this case went to Major Crimes.”

Bradley looked at another still, this one showing both the cat thief and Merkel. “Two different escape routes? They may not be working together. Was anything other than the eggs stolen?”

“Just these five. Nobody has any idea what they have in common, but if two thieves _not_ working together stole the same thing, they were probably hired by the same guy.”

“That’s three perps,” Bradley said. “We find one, we find the other two?”

“Exactly.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“You know,” Alfred told Bruce, “you should really start watching the news more often.”

“Why?” Bruce asked as he prepared his breakfast.

“An interesting break in,” Alfred answered. “Two thieves, probably rivals, one of whom is a woman wearing a rather _feline_ attire.”

“You think it might be the Cat?”

“It’s possible,” Alfred said. “Although our friends in the media are calling her _Catwoman_ now, to match _your_ altered moniker presumably. Are you going to let her get away again?”

“I never _let_ her get away,” Bruce told Alfred. “She set me up. Each guest had to give their fingerprints to get on board that yacht. Even if I _had_ used fakes for Rick Stewart, I’d have ended up with one more criminal alias and one less detective alias, and no vigilante needs that kind of complication with their aliases.”

“Whatever you say,” Alfred muttered. Then he changed the subject to a matter he considered more important. “I know you’re able to make your own breakfast now, but what the _hell_ are those ingredients?”

Bruce gave Alfred a nonplussed look. “Water, spinach, mixed berries, low-fat yogurt, protein powder, walnuts, and flaxseed.”

“ _Why_ would you eat those as one meal?”

“Oh, I’m not eating it,” Bruce said as he plugged in the blender. “I’m drinking it.”

And then Alfred gaped in horror at the atrocity that unfolded before his eyes. “No you’re not,” Alfred insisted. Bruce just put everything in the blender and turned it on. “You are _not_ drinking that,” the butler said.

Bruce drank it.

Alfred stared in shock before finding the words to express his outrage. “This is _sacrilege_ against the culinary arts!” he proclaimed, marching out of the kitchen. “And I _will not_ stand for it!”

“Relax Alfred,” Bruce called after him. “It’s just food.”

Alfred gasped.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “So who’s this Merkel guy?” Holly asked.

“Selina’s archenemy,” Arizona explained. “He does cat burglar yoga or something.”

“He is _not_ my archenemy,” Selina said, “and _not_ a cat burglar. Both of those titles are too good for him.”

“Fine,” Arizona said, “but you still hate him, and he still steals things.”

“And he has the fifth Faberge egg?” Holly asked. “How do we get it back?”

“Simple,” Selina said. “The Diamond Society’s hosting a gala in a couple of days. That’s where the client wanted me to give them all five eggs – and they probably told Merkel the same thing. I crashed one of those galas before, when I was getting ready for the heist, and I know Merkel probably did the same.”

“So you know he’ll be there with the egg that _he_ stole, and you can take it from him.” Arizona asked.

“Precisely,” Selina said, turning her laptop. “But there’s something else that I have to do.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce looked at the CCTV footage on the news one more time. “The methods used _do_ match her M.O.,” he said. “She’s used the glass cutters a lot, and she’s gotten around pressure sensors before - it’s a shame we don’t have any clue how. Getting in through the ceiling or a high window is another classic of hers, and she’s gotten around the security cameras on a lot of her other heists too.”

“And the cat theme proves it,” Harriet added. “It’s her.”

Bruce nodded. “As for the other guy, he’s Peter Merkel. High-tier cat burglar, like the Cat – but not _nearly_ as skilled. He’s a fugitive, while she’s never been caught.”

“And apparently she’s a hell of an acrobat too,” Alfred remarked.

“As if she wasn’t already a formidable opponent,” Bruce said. “But maybe there’s something we can use to our advantage.”

“Merkel?” Harriet guessed.

“Merkel,” Bruce confirmed. “It’s brief, but the footage does show Merkel taking one of the Faberge eggs with him. He has at least one of the five that were stolen – he’ll want the rest, and so will she. We know the Cat is a criminal mastermind, so she’s probably planning another confrontation right now. The question is: where and when will it be?”

“The Diamond Society gala,” Alfred said. When Bruce and Harriet looked at him, he explained further. “As far as we know, it’s the only place where they’d both expect the other to be. And judging by Merkel’s record, he’s smart enough to know that the Cat will be there waiting for him. The Cat’s definitely smart enough to know that _he’ll_ be there waiting for _her_.”

“I could show up as myself,” Bruce said, “but I don’t want to risk linking Bruce Wayne to Batman. Especially not when the Cat is involved. I think I’ll go as Rick Steward again.”

“So she’ll already be onto you?” Harriet asked. “Good thinking. Here’s an even _better_ idea: how about you go as _Batman_?”

“If she knows I’m there, she’ll try to either tip off Merkel or set him up, and either reaction will help me find both of them,” Bruce said to Harriet. “Going as Batman would have the same benefits, but it would be far less subtle.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Hey boss,” Liza said, opening the door to Falcone’s office, “Maroni’s here to see you.”

“Send him in,” Falcone said.

Milo Grappa looked at Falcone in curiosity, but said nothing.

Maroni entered, leering at Liza as he walked past her. In response, Liza glared at him.

“Liza, Milo, I think Don Maroni and I would like to talk alone.”

Milo got up from his chair and walked out, followed by Liza, who closed the door behind her.

“So,” Maroni said, “that Liza girl. Is that what you’re into, old man?”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” Falcone said, “and whatever it is, tread carefully. You don’t want to make me _or_ her angry.”

“Really?” Maroni said. “Because _I_ don’t think you get to tell me what I want. Not when I have this.” Maroni placed his phone on the table. He opened his audio files and tapped on a file, which started playing.

“ _What about Johnny?_ ” Sofia Gigante said. “ _If he keeps disobeying your orders, he could be a problem._ ”

“ _I’ll take care of it,_ ” Falcone replied.

“ _Who are you going to give the hit to?_ ”

“ _I’ll let the best man handle it._ ”

Maroni stopped the recording. “He’s real, isn’t he?” he asked Falcone. “The Best Man.” Maroni started laughing. “Oh, all those accidents and disappearances weren’t really accidents and disappearances after all. Gotta hand it to you, old man: had us all fooled! Nobody ever suspected that ace assassin of yours was anything more than an urban legend, but we were wrong.”

Falcone sighed. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Maroni asked himself. “What do I want? Hmm, what _do_ I want? I know! I want Grappa. Have him do a few jobs for me once in a while, arrange for some accidents and disappearances.” Falcone was about to answer when Maroni raised the palm of his hand. “Now, before you answer, remember – if word gets out that you had Johnny Vitti killed, you’re screwed.”

“Fine,” Falcone said. “You can have him.”

The two mob bosses shook hands, and Maroni left. Once he was gone, Falcone got a text.

_Do you want me to kill him?_

_No_ ¸ he texted back. _Not until we know how much he knows, who he’s told, and who told *him*._

/\\-^|^-/\

This was, emotionally speaking at least, the hardest part of Harvey’s job.

“Mrs Daniels,” he began, “I want you to know that in any other situation, I would be fighting tooth and nail to make sure your husband’s killer rots in prison for the rest of his life.”

“Then why aren’t you?” she asked, glaring at him. “That man murdered the love of my life, and you’re making a _deal_ with him? You were the one supposed to put him _away_!”

“And I will,” Harvey promised. “The terms of the deal with Lawton were clear: he still confesses, still pleads guilty, and still goes to jail. The only differences are that he gets to see his family and that in ten years there’ll be a parole hearing.”

“Why are you even letting him have _that_? You told me – when you took this case you told me, you told _us_ , that you didn’t care about who Lawton is or whether he has a family, that the only thing that matters to you is that he’s a murderer! So why are you going _easy_ on him?”

“Because in return, he’ll testify against the man who _paid_ him to kill your husband,” Harvey said. “A man who has ordered countless murders. Instead of _one_ of Richard’s killers going to prison for the rest of his life, _both_ of his killers will go to prison for _most_ of their lives. Please,” he begged her, “let me help bring the other man who killed your husband to justice too.”

/\\-^|^-/\

During Diamond Society Galas, conversations invariably drifted to whatever the news of the week was in the jewellery world. And as Elva Barr, Angelo Parker, and Edgar Heed all knew, the news of the week was that the Society had been robbed.

“Horrible business about those Faberge eggs,” Elva said. “And _now_ of all times!”

“Yes,” Edgar Heed agreed. “Those were the most valuable part of this whole exhibition, and now they’re gone. I hope the police find them soon.”

At this point, two newcomers arrived: Benedict Vogel, a well-known member of the Society who was known to be passionate about the eggs, and a stranger, who introduced himself as Rick Steward. Once the introductions were out of the way, Angelo Parker continued the conversation. “Well, at least they were stolen by two _rival_ thieves. I’d expect the two of them to compete for the full set, which does leave more time for Gotham’s finest to get the eggs back.”

“True,” Steward said, “but I wouldn’t put much stock in Gotham’s finest. I have experience with criminals, and let me tell you: two thieves this talented, they’re going to get to each other before the cops get to either of them.”

Elva laughed. “Those thieves are not exactly on the same level, are they? Catwoman is _much_ more skilled.”

“Are you _joking_?” Angelo asked her. “Peter Merkel is practically a household name by now.”

“Because he got caught,” Elva retorted.

“It doesn’t matter,” Benedict Vogel said, “as long as the police can retrieve the Faberge eggs before they’re lost to the dreary world of antique auctions forever, we _will_ be fine.”

Steward looked at Vogel warily. “Anyway,” the private eye said, “as much as I’d love to carry on this discussion, there’s a more pressing concern.” He turned to Elva and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“You may,” Elva said, smiling at him.

Once they were on the dance floor, all pretences were dropped.

“The same alias?” Catwoman asked. “Really?”

“I wanted to make sure you’d recognise me,” Batman replied. “You’re really going with the media’s new name for you?”

“I like it. Besides, _you’re_ calling yourself Batman now, why can’t _I_ change my name too?”

“Is that also why you started wearing a costume?”

“Please,” Catwoman scoffed. “I wear the costume because I want to. Now, are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to frame you again?”

“Not going to happen,” Batman said, “I’m wearing gloves this time. I presume Merkel is the guy with the combover?”

“Angelo Parker? _Obviously_ it’s him – trust me, I know the guy.”

“I figured. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to bring you both in. I’ve been keeping score of other burglaries that could have been you, and it seems you’re not as altruistic as you claimed.”

“I never claimed anything of the sort. I was only going after the bad guys on that boat, but I don’t _only_ go after the bad guys. And you should know by now that what you _have_ to do and what you _can_ do are not the same thing.”

“Well, fortunately in this case they are.”

“No,” Catwoman said, “no, I’m pretty sure that before this is over you’ll have to choose between going after me and going after the other guy.”

“I can _handle_ the other guy,” Batman told her. “And speak of the devil…”

“Mind if I cut in?” ‘Angelo’ asked.

“Of course, Merkel,” Batman said, “go ahead.”

Merkel’s eyes went wide. ‘Rick’ walked away.

“Who’s your friend?” Merkel asked Catwoman.

“Not a friend,” the cat burglar replied. “More of an associate.”

“Well, I’m sure you had a nice time chatting about how you were going to take the last egg from me, but you’re out of luck.” Merkel leaned in closer. “Heed’s the one who hired us. I already told him you were going to cross him, and now he’s pointing a gun at your back. You might want to go up to the roof with me.”

“Gladly,” Catwoman said. “Just try not to lean too far over the edge. I can’t guarantee I won’t push.”

The two of them went up to the roof, and Heed followed. Once all three of them were outside, Heed locked the door and aimed his gun at the two thieves. Meanwhile, Batman was still downstairs and managed to make his way to an empty room, where he could climb out the window and scale the side of the building.

“Did you really think _either_ of you could deceive us?” Heed asked.

“Well, _she_ certainly did – wait, _either_!?” Merkel exclaimed.

Something moved in the shadows behind Heed.

“ _That’s_ what you’re focused on, dumbass?” Catwoman asked him. “He said ‘us’ – that means he’s not working alone.”

“That’s right,” Heed confirmed. “And now you’re both going to die and my boss will take the profits for himself.”

Catwoman laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Heed asked her, his eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

“Just the fact that you admitted you’re guilty on camera.”

When Heed – and Merkel – still looked confused, Catwoman elaborated, “What, you didn’t think I’d expect that Faberge heist _not_ to attract vigilante attention, did you?”

And then Rick Stewart hit from behind Heed with a wrench and Heed fell to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued!  
> Although Part 2 is already written and it may not be that long before I post that too, so... looks like I don't get to be evil and leave you all hanging this time.  
> Anyway, did you like it? It's been a while since I wrote Selina actually being a thief (the last time was in Chapter 12 of The Bat of the East End) and I thought it was about time I did. In case you're not familiar with the 'The Batman' cartoon, or just don't remember the guy's real name, Peter Merkel is Rag Doll, a rival to Catwoman.  
> Also, Elva Barr is an actual alias that Catwoman used during the Golden Age.


	11. Honor Among Thieves

“Uh… were you carrying a wrench in your jacket through the whole party?” Merkel asked Steward.

Catwoman raised an eyebrow. “You _weren’t_?”

“And I filmed that confession of his too,” Steward said, showing Merkel his phone. “That will be useful when the authorities arrive. If he didn’t hire you two, who did?”

“I don’t know,” Catwoman shrugged, “but he’s gunning for us now.”

“Why would he think we were going to cross him?” Merkel wondered.

“Maybe he’s just paranoid,” Steward suggested. “I would be, if I was dealing with the two of you.”

“You would have ruined my entire plan,” Catwoman said, “I _had_ to frame you. I wasn’t even framing _you_ , just your alias!”

At this point, Merkel was hopelessly confused, but he realised one thing. “Wait… if you filmed that conversation, you’ve got _us_ confessing to the theft. I’d rather not get arrested when the cops show up, so see-“

He would have finished, but Catwoman knocked him off balance with a sweeping kick, then kicked him in the head. It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but it did disorient him. With that done, Catwoman ran along the rooftop, jumped to the next building, and kept running.

Of course, Steward followed. He _was_ Batman after all.

Catwoman turned her head and shouted, “You’re a persistent one, Bats! But you’ve got a choice – chase me, or bring Merkel in before he comes to his senses. Can’t do both!”

Batman smirked. “Watch me!” he replied, speeding up.

She figured he wouldn’t give up _that_ easily, but she had a few other tricks up her sleeve. Catwoman reached into her purse and tossed a small capsule onto the building between her and her pursuer. The capsule shattered on the rooftop, releasing an oily liquid that spread across the roof, causing Batman to slip and fall when he landed.

Grabbing onto a railing, Batman pulled himself to his feet. This was a problem: he’d have to move slowly to even get _across_ the roof without falling over again, and by that point Catwoman would get away. It would be smarter to turn around so he could take down at least one thief tonight.

/\\-^|^-/\

“So they _both_ got away?” Bradley asked.

“Yeah, this isn’t one of my proudest moments,” Batman replied.

(When Batman got back to the Diamond Society building, Merkel had already been gone, and the police were approaching. He’d worn his bat-suit under his tuxedo, so he stripped the latter off and took his cape and cowl out of the hidden pouch in his dinner jacket.)

“You don’t say,” Montoya told the vigilante. “At least the phone and this Heed guy can help us out. Any ideas on who hired Heed and why?”

“I don’t have any answers to the ‘who’ part right now, but I have a few suggestions for ‘why’,” Batman answered. “I encountered Catwoman before, and she outsmarted me.” Bradley chuckled and muttered that this was the second time, then – Batman shut him up with a glare and continued. “From what I know about her, if something doesn’t go away, she’ll manipulate events to tip the scales back in her favour. And she did say she was expecting that last heist to attract attention – presumably mine.”

“You think she wanted to bait Merkel, use you to get him out of her way, and the client got the wrong idea?” Montoya guessed.

“Exactly. Whatever her plan is, that’s the gist of it.”

“Well, if she wants you involved, she’s got you involved,” Bradley said. “We’ll figure out who the real client is, but we’ll pass that information on to you so you can play whatever part she wants you to play. If she doesn’t suspect anything’s off, we might be able to outsmart her.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Peter Merkel had a throbbing headache.

It is generally ill advised to use a car horn to get the attention of somebody with a throbbing headache, but Catwoman didn’t really care what other people advised her to do.

Merkel turned around and saw Catwoman – disguised as Elva Barr again – getting out of a sports car.

“Merkel, how have you been doing?” she asked with a smile on her face.

“You kicked me in the head.”

“Ah, that’s water under the bridge, right?”

“It’s been one day.”

“Anyway,” Catwoman said, “how about we work together to fix this mess? The guy behind this wants to kill us both because he thinks we’re trying to cheat him out of the eggs, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So let’s meet with him and give him the eggs!”

“Small problem with that,” Merkel said, “we don’t know who he is.”

“No,” Catwoman admitted, “but the GCPD will probably figure it out soon, and if _they_ figure it out, my acquaintance will know too. What do you say – deal?” She offered him her hand.

Merkel shrugged, shaking hands with his fellow thief. “Deal,” he said. “But once this is over, we’re going to fight it out over who gets the cash.”

“Thank you,” Catwoman said. “I admire your generosity.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Montoya and Bradley had been working the case for hours: they’d taken turns interrogating Heed, and looking for other potential leads in the case. Right now, Bradley was looking through the Diamond Society’s records and Montoya was coming back from the interrogation room.

“Finally got him to talk,” she said. “Turns out, he was hired by somebody called Benedict Vogel. Any idea who that might be?”

“Actually, yes,” Bradley replied. “This guy.” He showed Montoya a photograph of a bald man in a suit. “Vogel’s one of the Diamond Society’s most celebrated members, and he’s got a huge obsession with Faberge eggs. Half his Twitter feed is egg puns, and the rest of the Society even _calls_ him the Egghead.”

“So he likes Faberge eggs,” Montoya said, “so what?”

“So, these five eggs were going to be auctioned off in a few weeks because the Diamond Society was low on money and none of the members wanted to spend their _own_ money on it. Anyway, he was very against the idea and spoke out against it in public. He also got banned from the website for a week, and it looks like he created _fifteen_ anonymous accounts that _also_ got banned – all because he hated the idea of selling these five eggs so much.”

“Damn,” Montoya commented. “That’s eggs-actly the kind of thing we’re looking for. And with Heed’s confession, we can get a warrant.” She noticed Bradley staring at her. “What?”

“’ _Eggs_ ’-actly?”

“I like puns, is that so wrong?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“That’s a lot of dough,” the drug dealer said, “great job, Lotus.”

“Thanks,” Lotus said with a grin. “What can I say, I have a talent.”

“A talent for getting _caught_ , maybe,” Batman said, dropping down from a nearby rooftop.

Lotus sighed, while his boss started running away, only to be tackled by Batman. The vigilante knocked the man out then turned to Lotus.

“Really, dude?” Lotus asked. “This is the third time.”

“And can you seriously say that _this_ is any less justified than either of the other times?”

Lotus opened his mouth, but said nothing. Finally, he managed to admit that he couldn’t. “But give me a break, how am I supposed to get an honest job when I’ve been in and out of prison? Life’s hard for ex-cons!”

Batman considered this. “Look, things might be better this time. You never know. Just… turn yourself in without a fight, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Really?” Lotus started to smile. “Thank you so much!” And he hugged Batman.

“No hugging,” Batman said.

Lotus let him go. “Okay!” He held out his wrists and Batman cuffed him to a lamppost, then called the police.

“Thanks man!” Lotus said again as Batman left.

Batman looked back, before realising that he wasn’t alone on the roof.

“Well _that_ was nice of you,” Catwoman said. “How _exactly_ are you going to help him?”

“I know who to talk to,” Batman told her. “And why are _you_ here?”

“I figured you know who hired Heed by now. Or didn’t your cop friends tell you?”

“They told me,” Batman assured her. “Benedict Vogel.”

“Good boy,” Catwoman said. She stepped towards him, leaning in closely. “And by the way,” she whispered in his ear, “if you’re trying to outsmart me by playing right into my hands, it won’t work.”

“Then why don’t I just bring you in now?” Batman whispered back.

“Because if you don’t, you’ll get me, Merkel, and Head, all in the same place,” Catwoman said. She stepped away from him, turned around and jumped to the next rooftop, then started running.

/\\-^|^-/\

Benedict Vogel really _was_ obsessed with Faberge eggs. His penthouse was practically covered with them. There were Faberge eggs mounted on the walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows and the skylight had Faberge-style patterns engraved into them, and even the _table_ had a pattern meant to evoke Faberge eggs. Right now, Catwoman (who was now wearing her costume) and Merkel were staring at said table awkwardly.

“So,” Catwoman began, placing a dark metal suitcase on the table. “We have all five eggs right here.”

“Let me see them,” Benedict insisted.

Catwoman opened the suitcase to reveal all five eggs, nested in foam padding, the largest in the centre. Vogel reached for them, but Merkel stopped him. “You’ve seen them,” he said. “Now pay up.”

“Ah, yes,” Vogel said, turning around and opening a drawer. “I have the money…” he reached into the drawer. “Right… here!” He shouted, turning around with a gun in his hand. “Did you really think you could trick _me_? I am Egghead!”

“What… what!?” Merkel said. “Why would you think we’re trying to trick you?”

“You think I can’t spot a fake when I see one?” Vogel asked, smashing one of the Faberge eggs with his fist. “Every one of those but the largest has ‘fake’ written all over it! And then there’s that online advertisement.”

“What online… advertisement…” Merkel trailed off and looked at Catwoman. “The four he says are fakes are the ones _you_ stole. What did you do?”

Catwoman smirked. “Exactly what he thinks I did. I put up an online advertisement offering to sell five black market Faberge eggs to the highest bidder, then when you gave me _yours_ , I put it in the suitcase with a bunch of fakes.”

Merkel pulled out his own gun, but Catwoman grabbed it and twisted it out of his hand. If it had been anybody else’s hand, the thumb would have been dislocated if not broken, but this was _Merkel_.

Catwoman aimed at the largest egg. “That’s the only one that isn’t a fake,” she told Vogel. “Are you sure you want to take the risk that I’ll pull the trigger and destroy it?”

Vogel set his gun down on the table.

“There we go,” Catwoman said, moving so that she was standing directly under the skylight, with one of the windows directly ahead of her. She glanced up, then looked at Vogel intently and started to talk, glancing up between sentences. “Now, let me explain this whole thing: you hired Merkel when you already had _me_ – now, it’s enough of an insult that you don’t think I can pull off what was a one-thief job at best, but _he’s_ your backup? And then he went and ruined my heist. If I wanted to get the fifth egg back, I had to get his attention, hence the gala. I already figured Batman would be there, so I couldn’t just get the egg from Merkel then and there. But I _could_ get you to send someone after us, which would give Merkel and me a reason to temporarily team up. That’s where the auction came in.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Vogel asked.

Catwoman glanced up again, then asked, “Isn’t it obvious?” She fired her gun at the window in front of her, shattering the glass. “I’ve been stalling this whole time.” She leapt over the table, grabbing the real Faberge egg out of the suitcase, then ran to the window and jumped down onto a balcony one floor below.

Meanwhile, Batman shattered the glass of the skylight and dropped down into the penthouse. Vogel scrambled for his gun, but Batman knocked him down with an uppercut to the jaw. Merkel tried to run, but Batman vaulted over the table and kicked Merkel in the thorax.

With those two subdued, he moved towards the window – but Catwoman was already long gone.

‘ _Alfred is going to give me hell for this,_ ’ Bruce thought to himself as he restrained Merkel with zip ties. He left behind a disposable camera with photographs showing Vogel threatening the two thieves, then exited the same way that Catwoman had.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Here you go,” Catwoman said, handing her client the suitcase. “You’ll find all five eggs in there.”

“You’ll understand if I verify that before giving you the money,” Oswald Cobblepot said.

In response, Catwoman opened the suitcase, revealing five Faberge eggs. Oswald eyed them eagerly, then chose one at random and looked it over. “It’s real,” he concluded. “And a fine piece of art, if I say so myself. You’ve done well, my felonious feline friend.” Oswald gave Catwoman a different suitcase. “And here’s your reward.”

Catwoman opened the case and found several stacks of hundred dollar bills inside. She took one stack out and looked through it to make sure all the bills were hundreds, then smiled and closed the suitcase. “Pleasure doing business with you,” she told Cobblepot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think of part 2?


	12. Time For A Change

**Thirty-Two Years Ago**

Carmine and Maria both worked for a living: Carmine was a delivery boy, and Maria was a singer at a local nightclub. Usually, Carmine got off work three hours earlier than Maria, and left for work three hours earlier than her the next day, so they didn’t have much time to see each other, but they made most of the time they did have. Sometimes Carmine would come by the nightclub while she was there, just like he had done when they’d first met. They both earned a high enough wage to get by, with a modest apartment in the Industrial Quarter. That part of the city had been suffering ever since the Gadget Crash of the sixties, but they were mostly able to steer clear of the problems there.

‘Mostly’ being the operative word. Rex Calabrase had managed to seep into every corner of the Industrial Quarter and had been bothering both of their employers.

For Carmine, today was one of the luckier days, when Calabrase’s men didn’t show up to try to pressure Carmine’s boss into turning the business into a front for whatever sick enterprise Calabrase was focused on this time. In fact, today had in general been a good day for Carmine. He was feeling happy, and he couldn’t wait another three hours to see Maria.

He sat down in his usual booth, where he’d always be looking directly at the stage, and waited. He knew the routine by now: Maria wouldn’t come on stage _yet_ , but in about twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes had passed, and she wasn’t there. Carmine knew something was wrong now. He got up from his booth and went backstage. He saw Maria there; she was facing the other way so she didn’t see him.

“Maria?” Carmine called.

Maria turned around. “Carmine? I didn’t think you’d be here.”

Something was different. “Maria, what’s wrong?”

They approached each other and Carmine saw the bruise over her right eye.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

“You should see the other guy,” Maria told him.

“It was one of Calabrase’s men, wasn’t it?”

“I _stabbed_ him for this. He’s not dead, but he is in the hospital.”

“Maria,” Carmine said. “Did one of Calabrase’s men do this to you?”

Maria hesitated. “Yes.”

“Damn it,” Carmine said. “Damn _them_. Damn Calabrase, damn the cops, damn the lawyers, damn this city for not doing anything about Calabrase!”

“Carmine, don’t – don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“You got hurt because of him,” Carmine said. “They’ll come back, and if you… if anything else happens to you because of them, and I could have _done_ something about it… the thing I’d regret doing most is nothing.”

“Then _what_ Carmine!?” Maria suddenly shouted. “What are you going to _do_!?”

“I don’t know.”

**The Present Day**

The _King’s Cuisine_ – the small restaurant just down the street from the DA’s office – was already Harvey’s favourite restaurant. It was quickly becoming Bruce’s favourite too.

Harvey was explaining his case against Maroni to Bruce. “Everything’s in place right now,” he said, “we have that deal with Lawton, we’ve got his testimony – the only thing we still need to do is actually _serve_ him with a lawsuit. So, you know – if you could invite him to one of your parties that would be great.”

Bruce laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. At least, once I’ve got the Wayne Foundation running again.”

“What are you going to do with it anyway?” Harvey asked.

“I’m thinking that I’ll start by trying to reduce poverty,” Bruce said. “Use both short-term and long-term means.”

“Huh,” Harvey remarked. “I would have started by giving more money to the justice system.”

“Lack of money isn’t the problem there,” Bruce said, “and the things that _are_ a problem, you’re already working on. I figured I’d try to fix things from the other end.”

This, in turn, led to a discussion on whether crime started from the top of a city’s infrastructure, the bottom, or both. Eventually, Bruce and Harvey agreed to disagree and changed the subject to cinema. And inevitably, any discussion about cinema with Bruce Wayne will lead to a discussion about the Clayface franchise.

“The first one was great,” Harvey agreed, “but the sequels don’t make sense. Fire kills Clayface permanently, so how come he didn’t die in the explosion at the end of the first movie?”

“What? No,” Bruce said, “fire doesn’t _kill_ Clayface, it just makes the clay intert. It becomes alive again if you put it in water, which _did_ happen at the end of the first movie – the explosion knocked Clayface into the harbour.”

“Water can bring Clayface back to life?” Harvey asked, confused.

“Yes!” Bruce said. “That was clearly established in the forensic lab scene in the second movie – when a sample of the clay gets wet and it starts moving again? Everybody forgets that scene, but it fixes almost every so-called plot hole in the movie!”

“Well, we can’t _all_ be Basil Carlo nerds,” Harvey joked. “What do you mean it fixes almost every plot hole, anyway?

/\\-^|^-/\

“Well, first of all, it confirms that Clayface _can_ control fragments of himself just as easily as the whole thing, which explains how he could commit all those murders at the same time,” Selina explained. “Second, the guy dissolves the clay with acid, which is how Eriksen knows that acid will stop Clayface from reforming. And the fact that the first fragment of clay turns the other fragments into living clay too is foreshadowing that Clayface can move the water in his clay, which is how he fakes his death at the end.”

“Damn,” Sam laughed, “I’m sorry I asked.”

“At least you didn’t call the third movie derivative,” Selina said. “Then we would have been here all night.”

“Well, there are worse ways to spend time,” Sam said.

“Oh really?” Selina asked. “Like what?”

And the two of them started listing increasingly worse ways to spend time. Eventually, they had to stop their competition because the bartender announced that the bar was closing. Sam and Selina went outside and flagged down a taxi. Sam’s place was closer to the bar, so they told the taxi driver to go there first.

**Thirty Years Ago**

Carmine was fired.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise - that was the kind of thing that happened when someone threw a shoe at their boss and called said boss a “dirty son of a bitch”.

He’d had his reasons.

Well, now he was ‘job-hunting’, which in this case meant drowning his sorrows at a bar. The fact that it was common knowledge that said bar was a front for Calabrase’s drug trade was just a coincidence, but when word got around that he had been a reliable delivery boy who didn’t ask questions and now he was in need for a job…

“How’d you like a job here, Carmine?” the bartender asked.

“What do you mean?” Carmine replied, not looking up from his glass.

“You’re a delivery boy. The bosses need someone to make deliveries. And they’re always hiring.”

“You know I never wanted to be stuck as a delivery boy? I wanted to move _up_ the ladder.”

“Well, you’re in luck because if you take this job and you’re half as good as you say you are, you’ll move up that ladder eventually.”

And that was how Carmine Falcone got a job working for the Calabrase crime family.

**The Present Day**

“We’ve made excellent progress with your relationships,” Hugo Strange said, “so I think it’s time we go back to the root of your trauma. When we started these sessions, you mentioned that you’d never felt more horrified than when your parents had died.”

“Is that such a surprise?” Bruce asked.

“Of course not,” the deep-voiced therapist replied. “It’s a perfectly normal reaction. What I want to you to think about isn’t what causes that reaction.”

“What do you mean, doc?”

“Children tend to view their parents as a constant in the world. The world makes sense because it’s built around their parents, an unchanging presence. Losing their parents doesn’t just sever the child’s strongest emotional connections, it shatters the child’s entire worldview.”

Bruce considered this in silence.

“You never even considered that they could die before they did, did you Bruce?” Hugo asked gently.

Bruce took a deep breath. “My parents… they were good people. And they were happy. I thought that… that because they were good people and they were happy, that meant good people were always happy. That the world was fair, and that they’d always be around because good people never die. I thought my parents were the bravest people alive, and that they never got scared. But that night… when they were bleeding out, I saw how scared they were. And then they… then they died.”

“And you felt that your entire view of the world had been wrong,” Hugo guessed. “Did you try to reconcile that worldview with your loss?”

“No, I don’t think so-“

Bruce stopped speaking.

“Actually,” he started again, “yes I did. I tried everything I could to figure out how a good _world_ could allow good _people_ to die like that. I couldn’t. Every time, I came back to the same conclusion: the world isn’t fair, and it isn’t good. The world is random and uncaring, no matter how many good _people_ are in it.”

“Bruce, what do you do when you feel you don’t have control over a situation?”

Bruce looked at Hugo. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, what do you do when that randomness is in plain view? When something that a good world would not allow happens and you’re unable to do anything about it, how do you react?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess I never think that I’m _unable_ to stop a bad thing from happening.”

“Let’s try this a different way then,” Hugo said. “You told me that before we’d started these sessions you had trouble sleeping, that you struggled with nightmares. Would you describe that as a situation that was out of your control?”

“I mean… I guess,” Bruce said. “There are ways to _influence_ one’s own subconscious, but even if I knew them, I wouldn’t be able to outright _control_ my nightmares.”

“And what did you do when that was happening?”

Bruce shrugged. “I made plans. I try to be ready for… well, for anything, I guess. No matter how unlikely. Do you think that’s a coping mechanism?”

“It’s possible,” Hugo agreed. “The question is if _you_ think it could be.”

“I didn’t even _consider_ it before, but… the way you put it, that it’s something I do when I’m losing control… I have made contingency plans like that more often when I experienced a loss or a setback. _Much_ more often. But… how do I stop?”

“Bruce, there’s nothing wrong with a coping mechanism, and planning for unlikely scenarios is as valid a coping mechanism as any,” Hugo said. “The problem isn’t that how you cope, it’s that you need to cope. You fear not being in control, so you try to make sure that you’re _always_ in control. That fear can cripple you, make it harder for you to adapt. What _we_ need to work on now is getting you to recognize that it’s not a failure on your part to not have control, getting you to accept the randomness in the world.”

“How?”

“That’s not a question there’s an easy answer for. We’ll continue these sessions to try to understand how that fear works, we might even find ways to alleviate that fear.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Selina!” Leslie Thompkins said. “Welcome back, it’s been a long time.”

“It’s only been a few months, Leslie,” Selina replied.

“That’s a long time, Cat,” Leslie reminded Selina. “How’s Holly doing?”

“She’s doing great,” Selina said, smiling fondly. “When I was her age, I was learning how to disable burglar alarms. _She’s_ learning trigonometry.”

“ _And_ how to disable burglar alarms,” Leslie remarked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please,” the doctor scoffed. “You really think I don’t know it was you on that CCTV footage? How many people would take the phrase ‘cat burglar’ that literally?”

“Even if that’s true, what makes you think I’m teaching Holly?”

“Every time you came here, you took a new protégé under your wing. If you could have adopted _them_ , you would have – and now you can, and all of a sudden you’re Holly’s legal guardian. I can put two and two together.”

“ _How_ do you know everyone so well?” Selina asked.

“I wouldn’t say _everyone_.”

“There’s a rumour going round that you even know who _he_ is.”

“And I’m not going to tell you,” Leslie said, “because it’s not my place to tell it.”

“So you _do_ know!” Selina laughed triumphantly.

“I’m not going to remark on that,” Leslie said. “So, what else is new in your life?”

Selina stepped closer towards Leslie and lowered her voice. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Let me guess: they’re a classic Basil Carlo character.”

“…No.”

“So, tell me more about this significant other of yours.”

Selina stepped back. “I don’t think he and I are at the ‘significant other’ stage yet.”

“And now I know they’re a he,” Leslie said. “And that you’re not sure about the relationship yet.”

“I’m not _un_ sure,” Selina insisted.

“Selina, you need to start trusting the people you date – for that matter, you need to start trusting _yourself_. Otherwise, you’ll create a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Leslie, I’m fine,” Selina said, looking away. “I am.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Yet another board meeting was taking place at Wayne Enterprises. The topic of the day was the military contract.

“I’ve done a _lot_ of research on this,” Bruce said, “and I think I have a solution: we stop making weapons.”

“What!?” Earle exploded, shooting up from his seat. When he realized that all eyes were on him, he sat back down and forced himself to speak calmly. “Bruce, if we lose that military contract-“

“I didn’t say we’d lose the contract,” Bruce pointed out. “The military benefits from other things than just weapons. Lucius?”

Lucius Fox stood up and walked to the head of the table. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Bruce,” he said, before looking at the board members in front of him. “When Thomas Wayne brought this company back into the spotlight, he focused on the more humanitarian divisions: agriculture, construction, engineering, medicine, and the like. For too long now, this company’s been putting those divisions on the back burner while devoting more and more attention to munitions.”

“The military is our highest-paying client!” Earle interrupted.

“And the military needs more than just weapons,” Lucius continued. “They need food. We have a biotechnology division that could develop enough food for a whole platoon using only an average-sized vat. They need a supply line. We have a transport division working on new, more advanced vehicles designed for dangerous or varied terrain. They need medicine. We have a division _called_ Medicine that if we let it would revolutionise the world of vaccines and antibiotics. Name something the military needs other than weapons, and there’s a ninety percent chance we have a division for that. So let’s use _those_ divisions – the ones that can be put to humanitarian use too.”

Lucius went back to his chair, and Bruce took over again. “Thank you, Lucius.” Bruce placed a stack of files on the table and started tossing a file to each board member. “These are the specific terms of the proposal,” he explained, “Lucius and I came up with it together, although Lucius sorted out all the details. And since we’re talking about humanitarianism, I have an additional proposal: I want to restart the Wayne Foundation, and fund it using the profits _we_ make.”

Earle seemed to have a coughing fit at this.

**Twenty-Eight Years Ago**

“You know why I’m here,” Falcone said.

“You’re here because I’ve been investigating Rex Calabrase,” the reporter replied. “And he wants me killed for it.”

“That’s right,” Falcone told him. “That’s why I broke into your apartment,” he stopped to look around the apartment he’d broken into, “armed with a gun and a knife. You know normally I just run the trafficking business for him?”

“And yet he’s got you killing people” the reporter remarked.

“Oh, I’m not here to kill you,” Falcone assured him. “I came here to _warn_ you. The gun and knife? They’re for anyone who comes in here _actually_ trying to kill you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because Calabrase is killing this city, and we need to make him pay.” Falcone offered the reporter his hand. “What do you say, Jack Gordon? Partners?”

Jack shook Falcone’s hand. “Partners.”

**The Present Day**

When he’d heard about the board meeting, Reese decided that now was the time to confront the Wayne kid. He drove to Wayne Manor, knocked on the door, and asked the butler who opened it to see Bruce Wayne. The butler led him to the study, where he found Wayne sitting on a futon.

“Mr Reese,” Bruce greeted the lawyer. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“This isn’t pleasure, Mr Wayne,” Reese replied. “This is business. I’m here to determine if you pose a risk to my client.”

“I _am_ your client.”

“No, the company you just bought is my client,” Reese corrected. “ _You_ are a schemer pretending to be utterly clueless. I seriously doubt that you need someone to walk you through a new business strategy if you were able to create a handful of shell corporations and by out several small companies, then use the combination of all of those entities to buy a controlling stake in Wayne Enterprises without anyone noticing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce replied.

“Yes you do, and don’t try to trick me. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you. Once I figured out what you’d done, I decided to look a little further into the mystery that is Bruce Wayne. Imagine my surprise to find out that at only sixteen years old, you’d created your first shell corporation: an insignificant real estate firm called Xiro & Son.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“No, not if you really _have_ been gone for six years. But you haven’t, have you? Either you’re the Batman, or you’re backing him. Whichever it is, there are people who would pay me handsomely to have that kind of leverage over you.”

Bruce stood up and approached Reese. “Are you blackmailing me, Mr Reese?” he asked menacingly.

“This isn’t blackmail,” Reese assured him. “This is insurance. Your company is my client, and I’m trying to protect it.”

“I’m trying to protect it to, Mr Reese. The difference is that you’re protecting what it _is_ , and I’m protecting what it _should_ be.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Meanwhile, a prison transport van was leaving Arkham Penitentiary. Except it wasn’t really a prison transport van, and there was only one prisoner inside.

The prisoner was supposed to be getting a transfer to Blackgate where he’d receive better discipline, and so a guard had come with him to supervise the transfer. That guard was now lying dead at the prisoner’s feet, throat slit and blood all over the floor. The prisoner himself had now been uncuffed and was juggling the guard’s keys.

“You want some tunes back there, boss?” Punch asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” the Joker replied, “how about some of the classics?”

“You got it.”

**Twenty-Seven Years Ago**

Rex Calabrase had taken ill, and he’d asked to see his most trusted lieutenant. Naturally, Carmine didn’t waste the Don’s time and immediately made his way to Calabrase’s room.

It was a grand room, lavishly decorated, and Calabrase himself was lying in a four-poster bed.

“Carmine,” Rex welcomed his lieutenant. “Come closer.”

Carmine obeyed.

“What did the doctor tell you?” he asked Rex.

“He said I’m a dead man walking… well, I suppose I’m not really walking, am I?” Rex laughed, which turned into a coughing fit. “Heh. I could have died fighting those upstart mobsters, or in a shootout with the police. Instead, I’m dying of illness while a war knocks on my family’s doors.”

“A war that I started,” Carmine said.

“What?”

“At first, I was going to use Jack Gordon to take you down, but you stopped that in its tracks. So I decided to go for the more direct route. Start a mob war, maybe sow tensions within the family – undermine your power. And if that doesn’t work, kill you myself. You’re not dying of illness.”

“Poison,” Calabrase realized. “You son of a-“ he was interrupted by another coughing fit. Specks of blood fell on the bedsheets. “Guards!” he managed to scream between coughs.

When two guards ran into the room, Falcone rounded on them. “What are you waiting for?” he berated them. “Get the doctor back here _right now_!”

The guards listened, leaving Calabrase and Falcone alone again.

“Why?” Calabrase asked.

“Because you’re a disease, and this city needed a cure.”

By the time the doctor got there, Calabrase was already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has more plot in the flashbacks than in the present day parts, but the next one will be mostly present day and have a lot of plot.  
> Also, I've still got a few more Falcone flashbacks planned, as well as an eventual reveal related to said flashbacks.  
> Anyway, what did you think?


	13. Joker v Dent

In the week after he broke out, the Joker’s gang robbed three different banks.

“Bank number one,” the Joker had said. “First Bank of Gotham. Always good to start with the first.”

That had been easy. Punch and Judy had used construction equipment to force explosives into the walls of the bank, right behind where the vaults would be. Once everything was set up, Punch had pushed the detonator and rubble and dust flew everywhere. When the dust cleared, the two of them had taken advantage of the chaos to clear out the vaults.

“Bank number two: the Second Bank of Gotham. Because why not?”

This had been easy too, but in a different way. They had paid off the guard to let them in after the bank closed, and open the vault for them. The guard had wanted ten grand, so the Joker had beat him to death with a bag full of forty thousand quarters.

“Bank number three: Goldman Sachs. What were you expecting, a _third_ bank of Gotham?”

They’d hired five experts to pull it off for them while wearing clown masks – of course, each of them had been paid by the Joker to kill another one off at some point. One guy had decided to go off-script, but the other guy left standing had been the Joker himself, so that didn’t work out so well for the wannabe improv actor.

In his warehouse, the Joker admired the mountain of money he and his gang had acquired. “Oh, it’s a good time to be a clown!”

/\\-^|^-/\

Milo Grappa knew why Falcone had decided to outsource him to Maroni, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Still, when he had a job to do he did it properly, even if he did it with a clenched jaw. So Grappa followed Dent the whole day.

He wore various disguises and always stayed a few paces behind so the attorney wouldn’t get suspicious, but Grappa was there when Dent went to Starbucks in the morning. He was there when Dent went to the GCPD precinct to talk to Bradley. He was there when Dent held a press conference, and when Dent was ambushed by the two reporters from Metropolis. (He recognised the redhead – everybody knew who Lois Lane was – but the guy with her was new. He slouched, wore baggy clothing and glasses, his hair was slicked back, and judging by his body language he wasn’t exactly a people person.) When Wayne took Dent out to a restaurant, Grappa paid for a table where they’d be in his line of sight and close enough for him to read their lips.

All that time, he took mental notes about Dent’s routine, so he’d know when to take the chance to make sure he wouldn’t be a problem for Maroni any longer.

All that time, he never noticed a figure wearing sunglasses and a dark green hoodie watching him the whole time – at Starbucks, at the precinct, at the press conference, and at the restaurant.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Money,” Bullock said. “That’s the motive. Obviously.”

“There are easier ways to get that kind of cash, though,” Bennet responded. “And the Joker clearly thought the robberies through. So why did he make sure to get everyone’s attention in the process if he was only after money?”

“So if it’s not about the money,” Yin said, “or at least, not completely about the money, then what _is_ it about? Publicity? Maybe the clown wants people to think of him as some sort of supervillain, or one of those ‘crime artists.’”

“If that’s the case, he’ll probably try to lead us into a trap,” Batman said, surprising everyone.

“Where did _you_ come from?” Gordon asked.

“I was hiding under the desk,” Batman replied, gesturing to the desk next to him, in the corner of the room.

“You _really_ like to make surprise entrances, don’t you?” Bullock asked him.

“It’s good to practice for when I actually _need_ to make a surprise entrance – and you’d be surprised how often that is. Anyway, what leads do we have to go on?”

“We’ve got ballistics looking at the bullets,” Gordon told the vigilante. “If we can find out where the Joker’s getting his guns from, we’ll be able to take out an asset of his.”

“Twenty bucks says he’s getting his guns from the Merc,” Bullock said.

“No way,” Yin disagreed. “The Merc is overrated and their guns are overpriced. I’m betting it’s the Gallery.”

“It’s a bet,” Bullock agreed.

/\\-^|^-/\

There were a lot of things people expected from a free clinic, but surgeons in clown costumes was not one of them. Then again, when a long-abandoned building becomes the site of a free clinic overnight, strangeness of some sort is to be expected.

“Oh, you need to take better care for yourself,” Punch told the patient he was operating for. “Bullets are _awful_ for your health.” He removed the projectiles from the man.

“The implant is ready,” Judy told Punch, handing him the device she’d put together.

“Thank you, doctor.” Punch put the device in the patient, sewed him up, and yelled, “Next!”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Breaking news,” the newscaster said, “the escaped criminal known as ‘the Joker’ has struck again. The serial killer murdered Nigel Sutherland, a lawyer with known ties to the Maroni crime family, and dropped his body from the roof of Galavan Tower. A camera had been taped to Sutherland’s body. You are about to see the footage on that camera.”

The screen cut to a video of the Joker, filming himself with a handheld camera. He was shaking the camera with one hand and running the other through his hair. He licked his lips and snarled, “Hello Gotham City! I have an announcement to make.” He pulled the camera towards his face and started enunciating, “I… want… Harvey Dent… dead!” He set the camera down and walked back. “It’s gonna happen,” he said, “sooner or later. If it doesn’t… well, I might as well kill some other people while I’m at it.” The Joker started cackling.

The newscaster gulped. “This threat is the latest development in the Joker’s crime spree. Previously, he’d robbed several banks affiliated with Maroni. Before his incarceration and subsequent escape, he killed several seemingly unconnected people by poisoning them. Police are puzzled as to the Joker’s motivations now, but our sources tell us that they are considering the idea that the Joker sees Maroni as a rival of some sort.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Why is he going after me now?” Dent asked.

“I have no idea,” Gordon said. “But… if he wants to get to you, then we can use that.”

“You want to lure him into a trap?”

“He’s already luring _us_ into one,” Gordon said. “We’ll just create an opportunity he won’t want to miss and use that to bring him in.”

“So you’re going ahead with the plan?”

“I think so,” Gordon said. “But there’s somebody I have to clear it with first.”

“Who?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Barbara,” Jim began, “there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“Is it to do with the Joker?” Barbara asked, looking up from her computer. “Everybody’s talking about what he said.”

Jim sat down next to Barbara. “Yeah, it’s about him. We… that is, the other cops and I, and Batman… we’ve got a plan to lure the Joker out. We’ve tracked down his guns to a warehouse in the Docklands, so we’re going to try to take it down, but… it’s probably a trap.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“We’re going to let him think he’s won, then set our own trap. And to do that… I’ll have to disappear for a while. I want you to know that I’ll still be alive. And I’ll be back before you know it, I promise.”

“Don’t promise that, Dad,” Barbara said. “Just… just come back in one piece, okay?”

“I will, Barbara,” Jim assured her. “I will.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Breaking news: Lieutenant James Gordon has been shot and killed,” the newscaster announced. The screen showed footage of a police raid on a warehouse in the Docklands, while the newscaster continued speaking. “The lieutenant took part in an attempt by the GCPD to disrupt the Joker’s operations, and was injured in a shootout with the notorious gangster Judy Jeffords. Jeffords was captured and will be put on trial. However, Lieutenant Gordon died six hours ago. His friend, Lieutenant Harvey Bullock, has released a statement.”

“ _Jim was… complicated. A real stickler for the rules, but a hell of a troublemaker. Until recently, he was one of the few really honest cops on the force, and unlike the rest of them he never gave up. I think…_ ” Bullock sighed. “ _Jim was an inspiration to us all. A hero. The one Gotham deserved and needed at the same time._ ”

/\\-^|^-/\

What most people think of as the twenty-one gun salute is actually the three volley salute: a rifle party, consisting of an odd number of people between three and seven, fires blank cartridges into the air three times. At Gordon’s funeral, on the first volley one of his friends noticed something about the rifle party. One of the riflemen had a pale face. His hair was mostly covered, but what was visible had a greenish tinge. And the facial structure was unmistakeable.

“I see him,” Bennet said under his breath. “He’s in the rifle party. Third guy from the right.”

“Let’s wait and see what he does,” Yin responded.

As the rifle party fired the second volley, the two officers watched the Joker intently. They noticed the clown scanning the crowd, picking out Harvey Dent, and lowering his gun slightly as the rifle party got ready for the third volley.

Taking aim.

And then everything happened at once.

“Harvey get down!” Bennet yelled.

Dent ducked.

The Joker fired.

Yin attacked the Joker, wrenching the gun from his hands. The Joker took out a knife, but Yin just punched him, then tackled the Joker to the ground, cuffing him and reading him his Miranda rights.

Four gunmen ran towards the gathering, firing their weapons. Bullock, Essen, Montoya, and Bradley fought back.

In the commotion, nobody noticed two masked figures hold a chloroform rag over Dent’s face and drag his unconscious body away. Once the gunmen were disarmed and arrested, Dent’s absence was noticed.

“Where’s Dent?” Bradley asked.

/\\-^|^-/\

“You tried to trick me,” the Joker noted.

“I _did_ trick you. Where’s Harvey Dent?” Gordon asked.

“Not telling,” the Joker replied. “Nuh-uh.” He mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“Really?” Gordon raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell us anything?”

The Joker shook his head.

“Alright,” Gordon shrugged, standing up. “Well, if you won’t tell _us_ anything…” He opened the door and left the interrogation room, then Batman entered the room.

“Ooh, is this a ‘good cop, bad cop’ kind of thing?” the Joker asked.

“More like good cop, good vigilante,” Batman replied. “Are you going to tell me where Harvey is?”

“Are you going to tell me what the time is? Because depending on the time, he might be in one place or…”

Batman stared at the Joker. “Stop playing games and tell me where he is.”

“Why should I do that? This is so much more _fun_. That’s the only reason why I’m even _doing_ this.”

Batman sat back, and pondered silently.

The Joker raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Oh, I’m just wondering,” Batman said. “Wouldn’t it be _even more_ fun if you told me where Harvey Dent was? That way, you’ll get to watch and see if I save him in time.”

“Hm. You have a point,” the Joker conceded. “Alright: he’s in an apartment complex, on 14th and Solomon. You might want to hurry.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The complex had been swarming with thugs wearing clown masks. After a few minutes of surveillance, Bruce was able to pinpoint the ones he’d have to worry about for this. Three of the Joker’s men were likely to come across Bruce at some point during the rescue mission.

He took them out first, picking them off stealthily one by one.

After that, he made his way through the complex to the room on ground level, the room that he’d seen two of Joker’s men come out of while talking about Harvey (naturally, Bruce knew how to read lips).

He’d expected some sort of trap, but when he found a dead body propped up against the door, a bullet hole in the clown mask, he started to get worried.

_It might not be Harvey_ , he assured himself. _It’s not Harvey._

He moved the body out of the way and opened the door. There was another body slouched against the wall. In the centre of the room was…

Thank God.

Harvey was still alive, just unconscious. He was tied to a chair and surrounded by explosives and barrels of gasoline. There were wires coiled around the legs of the chair – Bruce guessed that if he tried to get Harvey out, it would set off the bomb.

Damn it. He’ll have to ask Alfred to teach him how to defuse those things.

Until then, he’d have to find another way to handle this. He took out the phone with the bat insignia on it, called Gordon, and told him to send bomb squad to the complex. He’d wake Harvey up, keep him calm, and stay in the room to keep watch on him until the cops arrived.

It was while talking to Gordon that Bruce noticed something about the dead body inside the room. It seemed… familiar.

“Gordon,” Bruce said, “one more thing. Milo Grappa’s here. Dead.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The Joker walked into the GCPD bullpen with a gun to a cop’s head. Almost every policeman in the bullpen pulled out their own firearms and aimed at the Joker. The two who didn’t were busy with a perp who had collapsed on the ground and was clutching his gut in pain.

“Now, before you ask how I got out,” the Joker said, “I’d like to inform you that the safety on this thing is of, and if anyone tries anything funny… Boom! Splat! No more Detective Whoever This Is.” He licked his lips. “So put your guns down and get me what I want.”

“What do you want?” His hostage asked.

“ _That_ is a good question. I want my phone call.”

Somebody handed the Joker a phone. He mumbled to himself, then dialled a number.

The two cops who had been busy with the perp noticed a ringtone coming from the pained man’s gut.

Then there was an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A more plot-heavy chapter, with what I think qualifies as a cliffhanger. Oh, and I'll be taking a break from writing this for a few weeks, so you'll all have to wait for the next chapter. Turns out, I am an Evil Writer.  
> Til then, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Was the chapter good? What do you think will happen next? Who do you think killed Grappa? I won't confirm or deny anything, but I'd like to see your theories.  
> And on a scale of 1 to 10, how obvious was my 'homage' to the Dark Knight?


	14. Comedy and Tragedy

“What the hell happened?” Batman asked as he entered the precinct.

“The Joker took a hostage,” Bullock explained. “He wanted a phone call, and when he got it he set off a phone detonator attached to a bomb that was _inside_ a perp, Joseph Grey.”

“He must have recognised the perp from when he or his henchmen put the bomb inside the guy,” Gordon said. “But he couldn’t have been sure they’d be in the precinct at the same time.”

“The Joker didn’t plan that, then,” Batman concluded. “He saw an opportunity and he took it. The question is, if the Joker didn’t put the bomb inside Joseph for that, what _did_ he do it for?”

“Gordon?” Bennet said, handing Gordon a phone. “It’s for you.”

Gordon took the call. “Gordon here.”

“Hello, Lieutenant,” the Joker said. “I bet I got your attention, didn’t I?”

“Is that why you killed Joseph Grey?” Gordon asked, trying to keep disgust out of his voice. “To get our _attention_?”

The Joker laughed. “Exactly! And here’s the best part: he wasn’t the only one!”

“How many people did you put bombs inside, then?”

“Oh… counting Grey? Twenty. There are nineteen left now. Oh, and in a few hours there’ll only be eighteen!”

“What do you want, Joker?”

“What do I want? I want to watch you try to stop me. And I want to watch you fail.”

The Joker hung up. Gordon swore.

“There are more people with bombs?” Yin asked.

“Nineteen,” Gordon confirmed. “And the Joker’s not interested in negotiating. He says he wants to watch us fail.”

“Sounds like a narcissist,” Batman said. “We can use that. But first we need to find the bombs.”

“Which means finding a way to locate those phone detonators,” Bennet said. “The Joker _must_ have some way of knowing where everybody is so he doesn’t blow himself up by accident.”

“Sat-nav?” Yin suggested. “The next time he calls, we can use the connection to hack his phone and trace the phone detonators.”

“No hacker’s _that_ good,” Montoya said.

“One is,” Gordon contradicted her. “We need Arthur Brown’s help.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Jim called ahead,” Arthur said when he saw his visitor. “He told me to expect you.”

“Then you already know what this is about,” Batman said.

“I know,” Arthur confirmed. “And I’m in.”

“Really? That quickly?”

“Batman, I’ve got a husband and a daughter to worry about,” Arthur said, “believe me when I say I don’t need to have to worry about a clown running around with a detonator for the whole city as well.”

“Good,” Batman said. He gave Arthur a black mobile with a bat symbol on it. “That’s the burner phone I use to talk to Gordon,” Bruce said. “The next time the Joker calls, Gordon will patch us through and you can track the signal.”

“Seems easy enough,” Arthur said.

“Do you think you can hack _into_ the Joker’s phone instead of just tracking it, then locate all the phone detonators he has?”

“Do I _think_?” Arthur almost laughed. “ _Of course_ I can do it. It’s just a matter of following the sat-nav signals. All phones have them these days.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The phone rang. Gordon picked up the call.

“Gordon here. This you again?”

“I’m not sure I like your tone,” the Joker replied. “You realize I’m about to blow someone up, right?”

Sitting next to Gordon, Arthur started typing code to hack into the phone on the other side of the connection.

“You’re right,” Gordon said. “Look, whatever you want, we’ll get it to you.”

“Oh Gordon, weren’t you listening?” the Joker chuckled. “I don’t _want_ anything except to watch you running about trying and failing to stop me.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do to get you to stop this?” Gordon asked.

“You can beg,” the Joker suggested.

“What?” Gordon said, with fury in his voice.

“Beg,” the Joker repeated.

Arthur mouthed, ‘Keep him talking’ to Gordon.

Gordon sighed. “Please, Joker. Don’t kill anyone else.”

“Hm,” the Joker said. “I’m thinking… nope! _Somebody_ is going to go ‘kaboom!’ Hope you have fun picking up the pieces!”

“Wait!” Gordon said. “At least give us a chance.”

“What _kind_ of chance?”

Arthur stopped typing and gave Gordon a thumbs up. He was in. His computer screen showed a numbered contact list – each contact was one of the Joker’s phone detonators – next to a map of the city with dots showing each of the phone numbers.

“Tell us where they are so we can get first responders on the scene.”

“No,” the Joker laughed. “Now, who shall I blow up? I’m thinking… number five!”

Gordon made the hand sign for ‘five’ to Arthur, who checked the contact list and compared it to the map.

The Joker hung up.

“Whoever it is, they’re at Victoria Tower,” Arthur said.

“Send a first responder team to Victoria Tower, now!” Gordon shouted to Detective Bradley.

“On it,” Bradley acknowledged.

“What about everyone else?” Bullock asked.

“I’ve downloaded all their locations,” Arthur said. “We just need to find all of them.”

“Will we be able to do that in time?” Montoya asked.

There was a rush of air, and a new voice said, “You might.”

Everyone turned around to see the visitor. He was standing with his legs apart and arms on his waist. Dust from outside was suspended in the air around his feet. He had red boots, a blue spandex bodysuit with red trunks, a red cape, and a golden five-sided shield with a red letter ‘S’ on his chest. He looked Middle Eastern and he was muscular, standing up straight. He had a confident expression, blue eyes, a smooth face, and a spitcurl in his hair.

Batman made a mental note of his facial structure and eye colour. It might be useful for identifying him later.

“Hello Superman,” Gordon said. “Glad you could help.”

Superman shrugged. “I was in town,” he said with his baritone voice. His eyes darted to the map on the computer screen. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“How sure are you that you can locate the phones?” Batman asked.

“I can see _through_ people,” Superman said. “It’s more like sonar than X-Ray vision, but it’s just as effective.”

“When you find everyone, take them to Leslie Thompkins’ clinic,” Gordon advised. “We need someone who can do surgery on them to get the phones out.”

Superman nodded, then flew out of the precinct.

He flew through the door so he wouldn’t break any walls or windows.

“Do you have the Joker’s location too?” Batman asked Arthur.

Arthur nodded and showed Batman the screen.

“I’ll bring him in,” Batman said before leaving.

/\\-^|^-/\

“That’s the last of them,” Leslie told Gordon and Bullock. “What kind of monster would do something like this?”

“Don’t worry, Doc,” Bullock said. “After this is over, the Joker will be locked up for a _long_ time.”

At this point, one of the phones Leslie had taken out of the dozen and a half patients started ringing.

Bullock, smartass that he was, answered the call with “Hello, this is Bullock, how can I help you?”

On the other end of the line, the Joker took a deep breath. “How are you answering a call from somebody’s gut, Detective Bullock?”

“I’m not,” Bullock said with a grin. “A friend of ours took the bomb _and_ the phone out of him. Actually, she took the bombs and phones out of all of them!” he explained cheerfully.

“I see,” the Joker said. “That was a terrible bluff, Bullock. There’s no way you could have found them all so quickly.”

The Joker hung up, and soon another one of the phones started ringing.

“Hello, this is Bullock, how can I help you?”

By the time they got to the eighteenth phone, the Joker was swearing. Loudly.

/\\-^|^-/\

The Joker was fuming in his hacienda when he heard sounds of a fight outside. It sounded like his henchmen were losing.

And now it sounded like someone just broke down the door.

“It’s over, Joker,” Batman said. “Turn yourself in, and this will all be over.”

The Joker turned around to face the intruder. “I think not,” he snarled, pulling out his gun.

He pulled the trigger and a flag with ‘Bang!’ handwritten on it shot out. He pulled the trigger again to actually _fire_ the flag, and it soared through the air towards the costumed hero.

Batman jumped out of the way and the flag’s sharpened tip embedded itself in the wall behind him.

“Why are you doing this?” Batman asked. “Taking all those lives – what possible reason could you have for that?”

“Why?” the Joker repeated. “Why _not_? Those lives are a joke, and death is the punchline!”

He fired again, and Batman dodged again.

“So you’re just trying to make the world burn,” Batman summarised. “And that’s _it_? Isn’t there _anything_ else for you to do?”

“Nope!” the Joker said cheerfully. He tossed a grenade.

Batman managed to jump out of the blast radius, but the explosion set off what he was pretty sure was a firework.

A firework that, judging by the smell of the sparks, the Joker had modified to contain some chemicals that were not to be inhaled.

He made a mental note to bring a gas mask the next time he went up against the Joker. For now, he’d have to improvise.

“If that’s really all there is to your motivation,” Batman said while he smashed the windows with his wrench, “I feel sorry for you. Really, you just seem… what’s the word? Ah, yes. Pathetic.”

“What. Did you. Say?” the Joker hissed.

The gas from the firework wasn’t filling the room anymore. It was escaping the room.

“I said you’re pathetic. ‘Lives are a joke and death is the punchline?’” At this point, Batman was circling the Joker, slowly getting closer. “Congratulations, you’ve managed to combine nihilism with sadism and sociopathy. I’m sure _nobody’s_ done that before.”

 “Shut up,” the Joker said.

While the gas had still been in the room, Batman was almost certain the smell had been filling the room from the top _down_. That meant it was lighter than air and rose above it, so he didn’t have to worry about civilians getting hurt. He could focus on the Joker.

“I mean, really,” Batman continued. “Was I supposed to be impressed by that? Give me a break.”

“Shut up!” the Joker yelled.

Batman smirked. The clown had lost his nerve, just like he’d planned. He hadn’t even noticed that Batman was now within arm’s reach.

“No,” Batman said. He punched the Joker and knocked him out.

/\\-^|^-/\

“What happened?” Montoya asked. “While you were in that warehouse?”

“I, uh… I woke up, alone in the room,” Dent said. “Couldn’t move. Figured out I was tied up, so I called for help. Guard told me to shut up. I was bored, so I looked around. So the explosives.”

“Then what happened?”

“After a while… there was a gunshot. And someone knocked the door down. That was Grappa. He had a gun, but he didn’t shoot me. He said he wanted to make an example of me first, so he started hitting me.”

“How did he hit you?”

“He turned on the safety on his gun… flipped it around, and used it as a club. Mainly he just hit me in the head and the ribs… mostly the ribs. One of the hits to the head, though… I started bleeding. The blood got in my eyes. Then someone fired a gun.”

“Once?”

“Twice,” Dent said. “I heard someone fall, I think it was Grappa. Then somebody dropped something on the ground… after that, I’m not sure what happened. I think I passed out again.”

“Thank you, Harvey. This has been helpful,” Montoya said before leaving the room.

When she was outside, she relayed what Dent had told her to Bennet.

“That matches his injuries,” Bennet said. “And Grappa _was_ shot twice. The killer left the gun on the ground, that must have been what Harvey heard being dropped.”

“He says that both shots were fired _before_ Grappa fell. Both entry wounds were in the head. That narrows down the killer’s M.O.”

“And if they left the gun behind, then either this was the only murder they’ve got planned…”

“Or they have more guns somewhere,” Montoya finished.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Alright, Smallville, here’s how this usually goes,” Lois said to the newbie. “One of us – in this case me, because they’re more likely to know who I am – asks the questions. While I do that, you’ll be writing down the answers. Take notes, and afterwards we’ll go through them and fact check everything. Got it?”

Clark nodded. “Got it.”

They went into the building with the other reporters. A few minutes later, the press conference started.

Essen made a speech about how what the Joker did will not bring the city down, how Gotham can and will recover. She answered questions about how the Joker was able to escape or whether the police would take measures to prevent similar escapes in the future. Lois was the one who asked if the rumours that the police had help from Batman, Superman, and the former Cluemaster were true.

They were, and Essen confirmed that.

Transparency was everything, after all.

Eventually, Essen introduced Bruce Wayne, who was contributing to the recovery efforts.

“Thank you, Commissioner,” Wayne said. “A few weeks ago, I restarted my parents’ humanitarian organisation, the Wayne Foundation. I restarted it specifically to fix the damage that I was seeing everywhere. The damage of poverty, disenfranchisement, corruption… and terrorism. And that’s what this was. A senseless act of violence. On behalf of the Wayne Foundation, I pledge to repair the damage done by the Joker.”

As soon as Bruce Wayne stopped talking, the reporters started asking questions again. One of the first was from Lois Lane, of Metropolis.

“Mr Wayne, how exactly will the Foundation help fix the damage?”

“Well, it’s a three-pronged approach: we already have a volunteer construction team that will be working to repair the buildings. We’ll also be providing Leslie Thompkins’ clinic with the medical equipment needed to treat people injured by the attacks, and providing the survivors with medical and financial support and therapy. The same things will be provided to the families of those who unfortunately died in the attack. Of course, if anyone wants to opt out of any of those ‘prongs’ they have that option.”

While he answered the question, Bruce noticed the reporter next to Lois who was taking notes. He guessed this was the Clark Kent that Harvey had told him about, but there was something familiar about him.

It couldn’t be _him_. Could it?

/\\-^|^-/\

The Wayne Foundation did follow through on Bruce’s promise. They were a fairly new organization, but they already had two construction teams that were able to handle this kind of thing with relative ease. The Joker had set off two of the bombs, one at the police station and one at Victoria Tower. One team was working to repair the station, the other was working to repair the tower.

In both cases, the workers talked to each other while working. The Victoria Tower team had a _de facto_ leader with particularly interesting stories to tell in Jeff Pilgrim, who actually used to live there. Whether those stories were true was another matter.

“You know, I actually _met_ the Bat once?” Jeff Pilgrim said.

The rest of the construction team groaned. “Not this again, Jeff,” one of them said.

“It’s true,” Jeff insisted. “It was actually while I was still living in Victoria Tower.” He gestured to the building they were repairing. “He was trying to catch a serial killer who was holed up in here, so he jumped through the window. He had no idea I was trying to take a nap in that room. Woke me up, and when I complained he promised he’d come back to fix the window.”

“Did he?” one of the new guys asked.

“Yep,” Jeff confirmed. “He’s actually a nice guy. We talked a lot, about how I used to work in construction before things went bad. He sent me to Leslie Thompkins’ clinic too. If it wasn’t for him, I’d never have gotten clean, and I’d never have met Mr Wayne either.”

“You met Mr Wayne at the clinic?”

Jeff nodded. “It was just after he restarted the Wayne Foundation. He came by asking Leslie if he could help out, and when he met me he asked me if I needed a job. I said yes, obviously, and when he asked if there was anything I was particularly good at I told him I used to be a builder. So he hired me to help rebuild old buildings, and get me back on my feet in the meantime.”

“And you said _Batman_ was the nice one?” another member of the team said sceptically. “Sounds like Wayne did more for you than _he_ did.”

“Batman did what he could,” Jeff said, “and Mr Wayne did what _he_ could. Being here right now, and having a warm place to sleep? I owe that to both of them.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The two reporters had gotten back to Metropolis and made their way home while comparing the weirdness they saw in Gotham with the weirdness they had to put up with in Metropolis on a daily basis. They lived in the same building, but Clark lived on the floor below Lois, so when they got to his apartment Clark said goodbye to Lois and locked his door.

“And I thought _I_ lived a double life,” Batman said.

Clark spun around.

“Why are you here?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Batman said, “I know you knew I was there, Superman.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark said, backing towards the phone, “but if you don’t leave now, I’m calling the-“

Batman threw one of his knives at him. It bounced off.

“If you _didn’t_ have powers, you’d be bleeding right now,” he told Clark. “Not too much, I try to avoid the more lethal hits if I can help it, but it would hurt like hell.” He looked Clark up and down. “You seem fine to me,” Batman concluded.

“Alright, fine,” Clark said. “You got me, Bruce. How did you figure it out?”

“Your disguise is too good,” Bruce said. “The slicked back hair, the baggy clothes, the hunched posture and slightly higher voice, the different personality and body language, and the glasses to tie it all together… most people would be thrown off by that and wouldn’t notice the similarity, even _if_ they looked past the costume. Where did you get that anyway?”

“A friend of mine made it for me,” Clark explained.

“Let me guess: Olsen. I read his blog. And Lane’s article on Smalley Pharmaceuticals.” That had been the first time that Superman had gone public, going up against the crazed and now mutated Bill Dunn – the man the world had known as Edgar Smalley. “Did they _really_ have to call Dunn ‘the Ultra-Humanite’?”

“Actually, that was Dunn’s own idea,” Clark explained. “He was kind of obsessed with making himself into another me.”

“He turned himself into a _gorilla_.”

“Oh, like _you’re_ one to judge. Anyway, was that all you needed to pin me down?”

“Not quite,” Bruce said. “After the press conference, I suspected who you were, so I did some more research to confirm. You went from PI to reporter shortly after Superman went public, you’re a member of Lane _and_ Olsen’s social circles, and so far, you haven’t been present at _any_ of the Superman sightings despite the fact that the majority of them occur where you live.”

“So you’re saying I need to cover my tracks better?”

“Don’t be _too_ worried, your disguise still works and very few people have the chance to see both Clark _and_ Superman in detail. It’s those that _do_ get that chance who you should think about.”

“Do you think Lois knows?”

“I’m sure of it. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Luthor.”

Batman nodded. LexCorp had bought out what was left of Smalley Pharmaceuticals. Dunn had committed everything from money laundering to fraud, to murder, to human experimentation, and there was speculation as to how sincere Lex had been about putting a stop to those business practices. “If you ever need help with him,” Batman said, “you know who to call.”

“Thanks,” Clark said. “And if you ever need _my_ help…”

“Thanks. And thanks for helping out with the Joker, too,” Bruce said. “One more thing: your powers.”

“I was born with them,” Clark said. “I think they might be natural to my species.”

“Your species?”

“I’m an alien. My parents – my Earth parents, I mean – found my spaceship when I was a baby and adopted me.”

“For an alien, you look suspiciously human,” Bruce said. “Might be why you were sent to _this_ planet in the first place. So you could blend in.”

“I think that was it too,” Clark said. “But I still don’t know why they sent me away.”

“Well, if I hear about any spacecraft being found, I’ll let you know," Bruce promised. "If it’s from your birth planet, it might have information on whatever happened.”

"Thanks," Clark said. "It was good to see you."

"Likewise."

They shook hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, it's back. Sorry for the wait, but now I'm going to be posting every other week on Monday, Thursday, and Sunday, until May 27th, then taking a two-week break before getting back to posting. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter.  
> On the chapter itself, first thing: the previous chapter did mention two reporters from Metropolis. Sure, Supes would have showed up to help anyway as soon as he heard what was happening, but this way it's even quicker and it gives me an excuse to give him an implied cameo in part one so it doesn't seem like as much of a Deus Ex Machina.
> 
> That last scene was basically an excuse to give you all a summary of my idea of Superman's equivalent to the Bat of the East End. There's also a reference there to a certain *very* old Superman story. I was originally going to include an explanation of Clark's powers as well, but I couldn't find a fitting place to end the chapter with it in so I just got rid of it.
> 
> Also, the person who shot Grappa *is* my version of Holiday from The Long Halloween, without the Holiday theme, and this is where the story arc really kicks off.


	15. Night of the Batmen

“He wouldn’t do this,” Bennet insisted. “He’s a good man.”

“I know that’s what everyone here seems to think these days,” Yin said, “but the reality of it is, he’s the best suspect we have right now, and even if it isn’t him, we have to investigate him to make sure.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Montoya asked her. “He’s not exactly easy to find, and it’s not like he’s going to walk into the station.”

At this point, in a cosmic feat of irony, a civilian shouted “Oh my god, it’s Batman!” Sure enough, the caped crimefighter had walked into the police station, and was now being swarmed by fans. One of them, a blond woman who looked to be in her late twenties, even took a selfie with him.

Nobody could see it, but underneath the lenses of his cowl, Batman was rolling his eyes.

He walked up to the three cops who had been talking about him. “Sergeants,” he said. “I’m here to turn myself in for questioning.”

**Two Days Ago**

Getting inside had been easy.

He’d picked the lock and opened the door, then carefully made his way past the grid of lasers. If he’d failed to avoid the beams, the alarms would have gone off and he’d have been screwed.

Once he got to the glass case, he took out a set of glass cutters and cut out a circle of glass. He reached in through the hole, grabbed as much jewellery as he could, and put it all in the pouches at his belt.

Then he heard the sirens.

By the time he got out of the jewellery store, police cars were pulling up outside.

Two officers got out. One yelled, “Freeze!”

He didn’t.

As he climbed up the fire escape, he narrowly dodged one of the shots fired at him. The other cop followed him up.

As he ran across the rooftops, the cop tried to keep up with him. He got away eventually, but not before he heard the cop say, “Batman, freeze!”

So they’d noticed his costume. Good.

**Today**

“Where were you two days ago at eleven pm?” Sergeant Bennet asked Batman.

“I was in Coventry, tailing a drug dealer,” Batman replied.

“Is there anyone who can place you at the scene?”

“Unfortunately, I’m too good at stealth for that,” Batman said, “but I do have these.” He dropped a stack of photographs on the interrogation room table. “You’ll note the timestamps in the bottom right corners.”

Bennet inspected the photographs. His eyes widened. “These could blow an active investigation wide open.”

Batman shrugged. “I do what I can.”

“Alright, Batman. You’ve helped us out on that case, now what about this one? Who do you think is responsible for these robberies?”

“Well, whoever it is was able to accurately recreate my costume,” Batman said. “So they’ve probably seen me in person _and_ had the chance to get a good look at me. That narrows it down.”

“You didn’t seem to care that much about stopping people from getting a good look at you back there,” Bennet pointed out.

“That outfit’s already on the news. The selfie will just reinforce the idea that it’s what my costume looks like, so when I change it…”

“You’ll make it harder for anyone to do this again convincingly.”

“Exactly.”

“So who _would_ have known what your costume looks like before all this happened?”

Batman was about to answer, but Yin walked into the room carrying four case files. “I’m taking over this interrogation,” she announced. “You two can get back to discussing this if we’ve proved it’s not him behind this,” she said, gesturing to Batman.

“You _know_ it’s not him,” Bennet told her.

“No I don’t,” she responded. “And neither do you. None of us know for sure that it wasn’t him.”

“Fine,” Bennet said. “You have fifteen minutes.” He picked up the photographs. “I’m taking these to forensics to be analysed.”

Yin put the files on the table and sat down across from Batman. “Photographs can be doctored,” she said. “That time stamp proves nothing. So we’re going to go through all of these,” she said, spreading the files out, “until you can give me an alibi that actually holds up. These are all the robberies that match the M.O., two of which also had witnesses placing you at the scene. Let’s start with those two. Where were you on Thursday last week, at one-fifteen in the morning?”

“I was in the East End,” Batman answered.

“What were you doing there?”

“I was visiting John Blake – he’s a friend of mine.”

“Does he know you’re the vigilante known as the Batman?”

“He does.”

“Does he know who you _really_ are?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his address? We’ll contact him to see if your alibi holds up.”

“Right now, he’s living at 17th and Levitt. Apartment number 81.”

On the other side of the interrogation room mirror, Montoya sent Bradley to find John Blake and check Batman’s alibi. Meanwhile, Yin moved on to the next robbery.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Got it,” Montoya said into the police radio. “I’m on my way there.” She made her way out of the station and into the police parking lot. She noticed that Yin was there. Yin noticed her too.

“Leaving so soon?” Yin asked her colleague.

“There’s been a break-in at Gardner Heights. Somebody stole a cat’s-eye emerald,” Montoya explained as she got onto her bike. “Nobody caught on until now because this whole thing with Batman was all over the news. You?”

“Just getting some fresh air. Bradley called me and said Blake confirmed Batman’s alibi, so I told him to talk to Thompkins to check the next one.”

“You still think it was him?” Montoya asked. She turned on the engine.

“I didn’t think it was him,” Yin admitted, shouting to be heard over Montoya’s bike, “but if he _was_ , I didn’t want to take the risk.”

“I get that,” Montoya said, also shouting. “I mean, I trust the guy, but I get you wanting to be careful. Anyway, see ya.”

“Good luck,” Yin called after Montoya as the other sergeant drove off.

/\\-^|^-/\

“So funny story,” Maroni said as he entered Falcone’s study, “I send that henchman you loaned out to me, you know, Milo – I send him to follow Harvey Dent and ‘take care’ of my problem with him. So when the Joker kidnaps Dent, Milo tracks them down to a warehouse and goes to make sure Dent gets killed. But instead _he’s_ the one who gets killed, and Dent lives to tell the tale!”

“I know what happened, Maroni,” Falcone said. “I went to Milo’s funeral.”

“You went to Vitti’s funeral too,” Maroni pointed out.

Falcone tensed. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You’re not above showing up to a guy’s funeral after you had him killed,” Maroni said. “So did you do that to Grappa? Because, I gotta tell you, it seems awful convenient that the guy _everyone_ would assume was your pet assassin is dead, I can’t use him anymore, and the one lawyer who can bring me in is still alive.”

Falcone stood up and faced Maroni. “How _dare_ you,” he said. “You come into _my_ house and accuse me of murdering one of my closest friends, and you accuse me of doing it as some cold strategic move? How _dare_ you.”

“Yeah, that… that’s not a denial,” Maroni said. “And unless you find out who did it, I’m going to assume it _was_ you, and Carla Vitti will be getting some interesting news about her son’s death.”

“Yin,” Bennet said. “Guess who I just brought in.”

“Another superhero turned jewellery thief?” Yin asked.

“Even better: his name is Jonas Fletcher. He was caught trying to rob a jewellery store. ‘Trying’ because he set off a silent alarm by mistake and got tasered by a security guard. And here’s the part you’ll want to hear: he was wearing a bat costume.”

“You think he’s our guy?”

“The costume’s good,” Bennet said. “I’m talking ‘mistaken for the genuine article’ good, except for the part where he lost to a guy with a taser.”

“And Batman’s alibis check out,” Yin said. “So Fletcher is our guy. I’ll let Batman know.”

“One more thing,” Bennet said, “I don’t think Fletcher was working alone.”

“You think somebody else put him up to this?”

“Exactly. And I think Batman can tell us who.”

Yin remembered something she’d heard Montoya saying earlier. A stolen emerald. “I think I already _know_ who,” she said. “I’ll talk to Batman to see if he gets the same idea I did.”

**Yesterday**

Bruce had been juggling several cases over the past week. From tailing a Coventry drug dealer, to investigating a corporation called Gardner Heights, his timetable had been full enough as Batman. Then there was the Wayne Foundation, and Wayne Enterprises. He was so busy, he’d had to assign individual rooms in the Manor to each task.

So Alfred knew that even if he was so inclined, Bruce wouldn’t have had the time to do what the news said he’d been doing.

“Have you seen this?” the butler asked, turning on the TV in the Wayne Manor lounge, where Bruce was going through Gardner Heights’ books with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb.

Bruce looked up from an article about an upcoming auction Gardner Heights was holding to see the news broadcast.

“This is only the latest in the spree of jewellery store robberies that has unfolded over this week,” the anchorman said. “And the second robbery where witnesses claim that the robber was none other than the vigilante known as Batman. The following footage shows a man wearing the vigilante’s costume committing the robbery.”

Bruce frowned. “I’m not a vigilante.”

Alfred’s jaw dropped. “ _That’s_ what you’re focusing on?”

“I’m _definitely_ not a thief,” Bruce said.

“So what do we do about it?” Alfred asked.

Bruce thought about it. “I’m going to turn myself in to the GCPD.”

“Co-operate with them and try to prove your innocence,” Alfred said. “Good prime.”

**Today**

“So, we’ve confirmed all of your alibis,” Yin said. “Even the photos you took in Coventry hold up. And we caught the impostor robbing a jewellery story while you were in here. It wasn’t you.”

“I’m glad I’m off the hook,” Batman said.

“We _could_ still use your help,” Yin said. “Until three days ago, very few people knew what your costume looked like. So who were they?”

“Well, the whole Alliance for a start. Me, your Skeleton Crew, the DA’s Office, and Vale and Knox. Then there are John Blake and Leslie Thompkins. Two other people who work closely with me and who I’d rather not name – but I don’t think any of them would do something like this.”

“They have the means and the opportunity, but not the motive,” Yin agreed. “So who _does_ have all three?”

“One of Falcone’s people?” Batman suggested. “Or what’s left of the Joker’s gang. Either one of them _could_ be behind this, but…”

“Why a jewellery theft?” Yin finished. “You think there was more to this than just that.”

“I think I know who was behind this. And if I’m right, this was just a distraction from whatever her actual plan was.”

“’Her?’”

“Has anything cat-related been stolen recently?” Batman asked.

Yin smiled. “Actually,” she said, “Montoya got called to investigate a break-in at Gardner Heights. A cat’s-eye emerald was stolen. I’m guessing you’ve got the same hunch we do?”

Batman smiled. “Catwoman.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“I thank you all for coming here today,” Carmine Falcone said to the assembled members of his family. “There is a pressing matter that we have to discuss. The death of Milo Grappa, my right hand man.”

“Do we have any idea who killed him?” Sofia Gigante asked.

“I was hoping that you would know that,” Carmine said. “But finding Milo’s killer will now be our first priority. Business will, for the time being, come second.”

Alberto Falcone practically leapt out of his chair. “Are you going to _let_ the family lose our fortune!?”

“Sit down, Alberto,” Carmine said calmly.

Alberto didn’t sit down. “I respected Grappa as much as any of us did, but finding his killer isn’t worth risking _everything_ we’ve built! And why the _hell_ is Maroni involved in this in the first place!? Why are you helping him, father!?”

“Sit down, Alberto,” Carmine said, more firmly this time.

Alberto sat down. The implicit threat in Carmine’s voice was incentive enough.

/\\-^|^-/\

“I’m not telling you anything,” the impostor told Bennet.

“No,” Bennet agreed, “because you won’t be talking to me. You’ll be talking to him.”

The door opened and Batman entered the room.

The impostor gulped.

“Jonas Fletcher, is that your name?” Batman asked. “I hear you’ve been robbing jewellery stores while wearing my clothes. Do you have _any_ idea how rude that is?”

 “Look man, I’m sorry,” Jonas said. “I never thought I’d get caught, I was just doing this because she offered me a lot of money…”

“’She?’” Batman asked.

“Yeah, the cat lady. She came to me and my boys and told us she’d pay us five grand each if we just robbed a few jewellery stores for her while wearing the Batman costumes she’d had made.”

“Your boys?”

“We’re thieves,” Jonas said. “Like, for hire. They’re not actually my boys, it’s more like… I’m one of Lucas’s boys. He’s the guy in charge.”

“Can you give Sergeant Bennet here the names of all of ‘Lucas’s boys’?” Batman asked.

“Sure,” Jonas said. “Whatever you say, Batman.”

**Eight Days Ago**

“So you’re just going to set him up?” Arizona asked. “That’s cold.”

“It’s also the only way I can be sure he doesn’t get in my way,” Selina replied. “Besides, I won’t be leaving him out to dry. That’s where _you_ come in.”

Arizona raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll need you waiting at the police station,” Selina explained. “When Batman gets there to turn himself in – and trust me, he will. He values his alliance with the cops, so he’ll co-operate with them – I want you to take a selfie with him. Send it to me so I know he’s there.”

“And then what will you do?” Arizona asked.

“I’ll set one of the impostors up. Send him to a jewellery store close enough to the GCPD that I know he’ll get caught.”

“And that will prove that Batman’s innocent,” Arizona realized. “But you’ll have your hands on the emerald by then.”

Selina grinned. “Exactly.”

**Today**

Batman was standing near the edge of the roof of one of the many brownstones in Midtown Gotham, watching over the city. Recent events had put things in perspective. This was the third time that Catwoman had not just evaded him, but actually _used_ him to make her plans work.

“I thought you’d be brooding somewhere around here,” Catwoman said, walking up behind Batman.

“I was just thinking about you,” Batman said, turning around.

“I never took you for the romantic type,” Catwoman replied.

“I’m not. Why did you do it?”

“What, have people impersonate you while robbing jewellery stores?” Catwoman asked. “I knew that if there was anyone who could have gotten in my way, it would have been you. And I couldn’t let Gardner Heights sell that cat’s-eye emerald off at an auction.”

“What, was this another altruistic robbery?” Batman asked sceptically.

“Yes. They were going to use the money to set up a new housing project uptown. And we both know what ‘housing project uptown’ means.”

Yes, they both did. When a real estate company in Gotham set up a housing project in the impoverished uptown area, it meant they were forcibly evicting people, knocking down their homes, and building something more appealing to upper middle class people – rich enough for up-and-coming neighbourhoods, not rich enough for downtown Gotham.

Batman made a mental note to investigate Gardner Heights later. “So you decided to set me up so I wouldn’t get in the way?”

“I did,” Catwoman confirmed. “But I also saved your ass.”

Batman looked at her, waiting for an explanation.

“That girl who took the selfie with you? That was a friend of mine. She sent the photo to me and I told the guy who got caught what to do. He didn’t know I was _getting_ him caught to get _you_ out of there.”

“I’m so grateful.”

Catwoman rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to be sarcastic. I didn’t do that for your gratitude. I already told you once: I don’t care what you think of me. The only reason I helped you out once I was done was that you’re actually doing some good in this city. Gotham needs all the heroes it can get.”

“Particularly when some of those heroes are notorious cat burglars,” Batman said.

Catwoman laughed. “I’m notorious, but I’m no hero. See you around.”

“You realize I still have to bring-“ Batman didn’t get to finish saying he still had to bring Catwoman in because she knocked him to the ground with a sweeping kick.

“Sorry about the kick, but I’m not planning on being arrested!” Catwoman said while running away across the rooftops.

Batman got up, realized she was probably going to get away even if he pursued her, and started to chase after her.

There’s no motivation quite as good as a high chance of failure, at least when you’re Batman.

 


	16. General's Rank

**Twenty-Eight Years Ago**

Rex Calabrase inherited the Calabrase crime family from his dearly departed father, Mario Calabrase. Mario had elevated the Calabrases from a neighbourhood crime family to one of the four most powerful crime families in Gotham, and was content to stay there.

Then he was hit by a car, something that was most certainly an accident that Rex definitely had absolutely nothing to do with.

Once Rex became the new head of the family, he set about eliminating the Calabrases’ three competitors using his own brand of ruthlessness and bribery. But he had help. There was his mother, Nina Calabrase – many people mistook her for an insignificant old woman, when in fact she influenced most of her sons’ decisions and ordered some of the more subtle assassinations of the Calabrases’ rivals herself (she had been what amounted to Mario Calabrase’s spymaster in the old days) – as well as his brother, Leon Calabrase. Leon was a cruel, calculating man who’s favourite solution to a problem was to burn it to the ground and salt the earth for good measure. Only Nina was able to keep Leon in check.

So naturally, when Nina died, Leon and Rex began to clash.

This was something that Carmine Falcone, now one of the Calabrases’ most prominent lieutenants, knew he’d be able to exploit.

“What’s eating _you_?” he asked Leon one night at a bar owned by the family.

Leon huffed. “My brother is an idiot. It’s a miracle he’s managed not to run us into the ground so far.”

Carmine shook his head. “No, not a miracle,” he said. “It’s you.”

Leon turned to Carmine, expecting an explanation.

“Who was it who made sure the other three crime families wouldn’t be a problem anymore?” Carmine asked. “You. Who was it who stopped anyone from challenging your brother before they even got started? You. Who was it who _just won’t stop_ holding you back from doing what you do best, and what’s best for the Calabrase crime family?”

“Rex,” Leon growled.

Carmine nodded. “You ask me, he’s nothing without you. Why should you have to listen to him?”

“You’re right,” Leon said. “I don’t need him,” he continued, more to himself now than to Carmine. “I can do this myself.” He got up and walked out of the bar.

Carmine chuckled to himself.

**The Present Day**

With DA Finch’s retirement, Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent were the interim district attorneys for Gotham City. Of their two assistant district attorneys, one was Vernon Wells.

Vernon almost jumped out of his skin when he came home to find Maroni sitting in the dark in Vernon’s second favourite chair.

“I heard you’ve got a problem with your boss,” Maroni said. That was true.

Vernon had been a quiet, unambitious man. He’d been happy with his current job at the DA’s office, especially given some of his income on the side. But he’d been a quiet and unambitious man because the DA’s office had been a quiet and unambitious workplace. Then Johnny Vitti had attacked, and everything changed. Finch had become a crusading attorney in his last few months, and Dent and Dawes had gone from being considered troublesome but talented to being praised for exactly the kind of determination that had made them troublesome in the first place.

Vernon wasn’t happy with that, and he definitely wasn’t happy with Dent challenging Maroni.

“Everybody calls Dent and Dawes the best damn attorneys this city’s had in years,” Vernon grumbled in reply, “but they’re reckless. They have no idea how to play ball.”

Maroni nodded. “They don’t know who not to piss off.”

“Exactly!” Vernon said. “Falcone already sent _his_ attack dog once, and now Dent’s decided to go up against you as well?”

Maroni chuckled at Johnny Vitti being described as Falcone’s attack dog. “So you’ve got a problem with Harvey Dent, and _I’ve_ got a problem with Harvey Dent,” he said. “How about we help each other out?”

Outside Vernon’s house, five of Maroni’s henchmen (four thugs and one driver) were waiting in a sports car. The windows were reinforced. They could stop anything short of a military grade bullet in its tracks.

“Man,” the driver said, “this is taking too long. It’s _killing_ me.”

If there was ever such a thing as ironic last words, it was those last words.

A military grade bullet went through the windscreen and the driver’s head. Two, actually.

The thugs started scrambling through the doors, but one by one they all went down with a bullet to the brain. The shooter approached the dead bodies – some of them had managed to escape the car before being shot – and shot each one in the head again.

The shooter dropped the gun on the ground, then threw a grenade into the car, turned around and walked away.

The car exploded.

/\\-^|^-/\

One of the most common questions asked by Gotham’s tabloids was ‘what is Bruce Wayne like on a date?’ Speculation tended towards grand gestures – one writer suggested Bruce had several musical groups on retainer specifically for serenading his dates, which Bruce had to admit was a good idea if a bit over the top – when the reality was almost the opposite. Bruce, to put it simply, felt that grand gestures were better reserved for milestones – one-year anniversaries and the like – whereas everything else was more romantic when it was simple.

He had a thing for small restaurants, especially if they held sentimental value, and this certainly was that. It was Harvey’s favourite restaurant, the first time they met properly (well, they’d already met several times before then, but Harvey didn’t know Bruce was Batman), and Bruce had bought it after he’d heard about the robbery, to help the restaurant manager keep his family business afloat. They’d had their first date here too.

So, once Harvey was out of the hospital, that was the venue Bruce suggested for their next date. Harvey had agreed. And now, here they were.

At first, they’d talked about work – Harvey had asked Bruce how running the company was going, and Bruce told Harvey about how he was about to meet with his uncle and the company’s liaison with the military to talk about the proposal for the amended contract Wayne Enterprises had with the armed forces.

“What about you? How are you feeling, now that you’re out of hospital?” Bruce asked.

“I’m getting better,” Harvey replied. “The painkillers help, but when they wear off it hurts like hell.”

Bruce winced in sympathy. “I’ve been there,” he said. Harvey raised an eyebrow. “I had an… adventurous childhood,” Bruce explained. “And adolescence.” He laughed.

Harvey laughed too. “Is that what you were doing all those years? Adventuring?”

“Pretty much,” Bruce said.

Harvey grinned. “What _kind_ of adventures?”

“Well, for a while I was a mercenary...’s intern.”

“Seriously?” Harvey asked.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Bruce asked.

“There’s an alien superhero in Metropolis, we’re still trying to figure out what the hell happened in Central City, and some sort of wonder woman just ended the Kasnian Civil War. At this point, I’m almost ready to believe anything,” Harvey said.

Bruce hummed in agreement. “I heard about what happened in Jovanopolis,” he said. “Remind me to ask Adrijana about it.”

Harvey’s jaw dropped. “You know Princess Adrijana?”

Bruce shrugged. “We met at a gala when I was nine. She was fourteen, like my cousin. They actually dated for a while.”

“Your cousin,” Harvey repeated. “Dated the direct heir to the throne of Kasnia.”

“They broke up before I left Gotham,” Bruce said, “but they’re still close, I think. The war starting was actually one of the reasons why Kate joined the army in the first place.”

“You’re the first person I’ve met whose cousin has dated royalty,” Harvey said.

“I figured,” Bruce said. “I was actually hoping you’d be surprised that I knew Adrijana – I wanted to impress you by showing off my connections.”

“Consider me impressed,” Harvey said, “though I didn’t take you for a namedropper.”

“Harvey, I’m not just rich, I’m the unwilling poster boy for rich people in Gotham. Being able to drop some impressive names is one of the few benefits that brings.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Harvey said.

“Oh really? Let me tell you about some of the people I have to talk to at every single gala.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“This is everything I’ve been able to find on the Wayne kid,” the private detective said. “Now I want my money.”

Coleman Reese looked through the papers the detective had brought him. At a cursory glance, they seemed satisfactory. He handed over the sum they’d agreed upon when Reese had hired the man.

The detective thanked him and left Reese’s office.

Reese spent the next forty minutes taking a _much_ closer look at the papers – Bruce Wayne’s history, finances, and so on, at least as far as a determined detective could acquire.

Something caught his eye. One of the shell corporations Bruce had set up… Xiro & Son. Where had he heard that name before?

/\\-^|^-/\

“Bruce,” Jacob Kane greeted his nephew warmly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too, Uncle Jacob,” Bruce replied, smiling. “I’m sorry we haven’t talked that much since I got back.”

“Don’t apologize, Bruce,” Jacob said. “You’re a busy man.”

“That’s true,” Bruce agreed, “who’d have thought that owning a corporation _and_ running a charity at the same time would be so hard?”

Jacob laughed.

“Still,” Bruce said, “I’ll try to make more time for my family in the future. That’s… something I’ve been told I need to work on.” As much progress as he was making thanks to Dr Strange, Bruce still wasn’t sure he was ready to tell his uncle that he was in therapy.

He would once he was.

“That’s good to hear,” Jacob said. “ _But_ we both know this is just a bonus. So let’s get to the real reason why we’re meeting here.” His demeanour became more serious. Not antagonistic, but his smile faded and his face adopted a carefully controlled neutral expression.

Bruce mirrored this transition. “The contract Wayne Enterprises has with the military,” he said.

“Yes,” Jacob said. “I’ve looked over your proposal… Bruce, I understand your reluctance to get involved with weapons, even if I don’t agree with it. And the armed forces _do_ need everything you’re offering here. But the higher ups won’t necessarily go for this, and if they drop your contract they might get involved with LexCorp – or worse, Villa-Nye Incorporated.”

Bruce shuddered. _Nobody_ wanted the military to get involved with Villa-Nye Incorporated except for the people running or being paid by Villa-Nye Incorporated, especially after their alleged involvement in the disappearance of Captain Steve Trevor somewhere over the Black Sea.

“I get it, uncle,” Bruce said. “But what I’m offering… it’s great for just about everyone involved. The military gets new gear that’s not weaponry _and_ the chance to boast about helping develop another lifesaving technology, Wayne Enterprises gets to keep making money _and_ save lives, and once these technologies have been developed they can be used to save lives even _outside_ of warfare.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to General Lane,” Jacob said, “but I can’t guarantee he’ll go for it.”

“I understand,” Bruce said. “I just hope he does.”

“I hope so too,” Jacob said.

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce Wayne’s idea of a romantic date may have been a small restaurant and a relaxed conversation without grand gestures, but there were others who thought even _that_ was going a bit far. Two such people were Selina Kyle and Sam Bradley Jr. Neither of them were particularly keen on romance.

So it made perfect sense for _their_ date to be at a noisy bar where the jukebox was playing punk rock.

At first, they just talked, but soon they discovered that they had a mutual fondness for pool and, since there was a pool table behind them, decided to play.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Selina warned, “I’m going to win.”

“I’ve been playing pool in bars since I was fourteen,” Sam said. “ _I’m_ going to win.”

“I started playing pool when I was eight and the orphanage got a pool table,” Selina said. “ _I’m_ going to win and I’m willing to bet on it.”

“What are we betting?” Sam asked, picking up a pool cue.

“Let’s just go with money,” Selina said, picking up her own pool cue. “Twenty bucks?”

“Let’s make it thirty.”

Selina got into position and grinned. “You’re on. I’ll let you go first,” she decided. “You know, to give you a chance.”

“Well, I’m not one to turn down a head start,” Sam said.

“That’s for sure. _Fourteen_?”

“I lived above a bar,” Sam said, “and my dad played pool a lot anyway. It was a bonding experience for us.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Master Bruce?” Alfred said, poking his head into the study. “Mister Reese is here to see you.”

“Send him in,” Bruce said, hiding the casefiles he’d been looking at. “If I’m going to start getting surprise visitors,” he muttered to himself, “I should find a different place to do my work as Batman.”

Reese entered the room and stood between Bruce (who was sitting in his favourite armchair) and the coffee table. “Mister Wayne,” Reese said. “I’ve discovered something interesting about you.”

“Oh?” Bruce said. “What would that be?”

“Just that you set up a shell corporation called Xiro & Son, almost a year before your supposed return to Gotham – and all of the corporation’s properties were here. Mainly some warehouses and a few apartments in the East End. One of which was where Batman was living before the police found it. And in the following week, all of Xiro & Son’s assets were dissolved. Here’s the most surprising part,” Reese said, smiling unconvincingly and waving his hands like a jazz dancer. “A lot of those assets ended up in the hands of other shell corporations _you_ set up.”

Bruce stared at Reese, one eyebrow raised in confusion. “…What are you getting at, Mister Reese?”

“I can draw a line connecting you to Batman,” Reese said, “and I’m sure a lot of people would be interested in seeing that line.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed and his back straightened. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“No,” Reese told him. “This isn’t blackmail, this is insurance. In case you make a decision that’s not good for my client.”

“I _am_ your client,” Bruce said.

“Wayne Enterprises is my client,” Reese contradicted him. “You’re just the name on the building and a controlling stake.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Being a mafia don was usually a career one kept for life – those inclined to retire didn’t often get the opportunity to do so. When it comes to organized crime, getting old usually meant dying.

But while rules don’t have exceptions (popular sayings aside), trends do, and the exception to this trend was Luigi Maroni. He’d survived the Calabrase Civil War and had founded his own crime family in the aftermath, refusing to join with Carmine Falcone, who he regarded as an untrustworthy upstart. Years later, at seventy-eight, he’d handed control of the Maroni Crime Family over to his eldest son, Salvatore. The first thing Salvatore did as the don was make sure his father was cared for.

That had been twelve years ago. Salvatore still visited his father’s estate once a week. Today was one of those visits. They were sitting at a table that had been set up on the patio at the front of the house – there was at the back of the house too, overlooking the gardens – but the sun shined on this side at noon and, well, it was noon.

“This is the same guy that killed Grappa?” Luigi asked, looking at the photos of the burning wreck of the car.

“It looks that way,” Sal said. “Each of my guys was shot in the head two times. The sonofabitch who did it left his gun on the ground, and it was a modified .22 calibre shotgun.”

“Modified?”

“The bullets are the kind that they use in the military,” Sal explained.

“He came prepared,” Luigi remarked. “And Grappa was working for you when _he_ got killed. Whoever this guy is, he has a vendetta against you.”

“Which means that either he’s working for Falcone, or he’s some sort of vigilante,” Sal said. “If this was Batman’s work, these guys would be a lot less dead, and if it was some other vigilante, he’d be a lot _more_ dead. That just leaves Falcone.”

“Well there’s one vigilante who could pull this off,” Luigi pointed out. “But he disappeared years ago.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Luigi Maroni’s estate had dozens of armed guards patrolling the grounds, with orders to kill any intruder who tried to get past them. So when three of the guards saw a shadowy figure jump the fence into the gardens, they opened fire.

The shadowy figure took several bullets – to the chest, head, legs, and gut – and fell to the ground. The three guards approached the fallen figure.

Two shots rang out, and there were only two guards left.

“He’s still alive!” one yelled, opening fire again. The other guard was smarter and decided to run away while his friend was shot in the head twice. The shadowy figure stood up and ran after the third guard.

He made it to the mansion patio before getting shot. His blood and brains splattered on the glass of the conservatory.

There were four guards inside the conservatory, playing poker. When they heard the gunshots, and saw their colleague’s brains on the glass, they panicked and reached for their guns.

The figure threw a brick to shatter the glass, then threw a flash grenade through the hole.

The explosion blinded and deafened all four of them.

The conservatory door was opened and the figure picked the guards off one by one. One tried to fight back with a knife and received a broken arm for his troubles. One came to his senses, saw the attacker replacing the gun’s magazine, and tried to seize the moment and shoot the attacker.

The bullet bounced off, and the target didn’t even flinch. Just aimed at the guard absent-mindedly and fired. Twice.

The last guard was cowering in the foetal position and whimpering in fear. When the figure approached him, he begged, “Please man, don’t do this. I have a son, he’s four years old. And a daughter, she’s three. And-and I have a third kid on the way, too. I can’t die on them, I can’t!”

“You’re not lying,” the figure noted, leaning in closer. “But _I don’t care_.”

There were two more gunshots.

 The massacre continued, into the mansion, up the stairs, and to the front of the house. The killer stopped at a large floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the front patio. Salvatore Maroni was there and so was his father.

There’d be plenty of time to kill the don later. Right now, the point was sending a message.

Down on the ground below, one of the few guards who’d survived ran outside. “Mr Maroni, sir,” he said. Both Maronis stood. “Uh, Mr Maroni Sr, sir, I mean,” the guard elaborated. “Someone got into the house.”

“What!?” both Maronis said, furious.

“We tried to stop him, but nothing even slowed him down,” the guard said. “And he’s not messing around. He’s killed almost all of us, all in the same way.”

Salvatore froze. “Two shots to the head?”

“Yes,” the guards said, his eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Before Salvatore could answer there was a gunshot, the sound of glass shattering, another gunshot, and the sound of two bullets going through a human skull.

Luigi Maroni fell to the ground.

Salvatore screamed in grief and ran towards his father.

“Dad?” he asked, cradling his father’s body in his arms. “Dad?” There were tears in Salvatore’s eyes. He choked back a sob.

A .22 calibre shotgun landed on the ground.

Salvatore’s gaze snapped up. His eyes filled with rage.

**Twenty-Seven Years Ago**

“I heard my brother’s dead,” Leon said.

“You heard right,” Carmine told him. “You know, it was in this very bar that this whole thing started,” he remarked.

“It was,” Leon agreed. “And it’s where this whole thing ends.” He pulled out a gun and aimed it at Carmine. Carmine’s bodyguards pulled their guns on Leon, and Leon’s bodyguards pulled _their_ guns on _them_.

“Leon, what are you doing?”

“You killed my brother,” Leon explained. “Now, I didn’t like him at all, but now I’m in charge of the Calabrase crime family, so it falls to me to avenge the wrongs done against us. You wronged us when you killed my predecessor, so now you’re going to die.”

“So this isn’t personal?” Carmine asked. “Just business?”

“That’s right,” Leon said with a smile. “It’s just business.”

“That’s good,” Carmine said. “Because so is this.”

Leon Calabrase’s head exploded. The bodyguard on Leon’s left lowered his smoking gun.

The other three bodyguards followed suit.

“Like you said, Leon,” Carmine said, “it’s just business.” He turned to the bodyguard who’d shot his boss. “What’s your name?”

“Luca Veneto, sir,” the man replied.

“Luca, I’m sorry about this,” Carmine told him, “but you understand, I can’t afford to have a traitor by my side.”

A bullet went through the window, through Luca, and through Leon’s other bodyguard. Both men fell to the ground.

“Who was that?” Milo Grappa, one of Carmine’s men, asked.

“ _That_ ,” Carmine replied, “was the Best Man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrijana is my version of Princess Audrey - 'Audrey' is an English name, whereas Kasnia is a Slavic country, so I changed her name to a Slavic one. I named the capital Jovanopolis after Jovan Nenad - he existed in real life, but in the Batman Saga universe he was successful in establishing an independent state and named the capital after himself.


	17. If This Is The Calm, Who Needs The Storm?

**Eight Years Ago**

She supposed she should start trying to find a new name for herself. After all, she couldn’t exactly go by David anymore.

She looked at herself in the mirror in her bedroom, at her eyeliner and black lipstick, her earrings and her long hair. Really, the goth aesthetic made things a lot easier.

She wondered when she’d be ready to start coming out, and who she’d come out to first. Her mother would probably be the first person. Then Bruce, and then Alfred. Then her father, if he could be bothered to take a break from his business trips for more than a day.

Speaking of which, her mother was probably worried about her. As absent as her father tended to be, she’d always been eager to talk to him when he called, but this time she’d been reluctant – after all, he was an old-fashioned man.

Anyway, her mother had probably figured out that something was going on and would be knocking on the door any moment now to talk to her about it.

The question is, was she ready to start coming out to people?

**The Present Day**

Harvey walked into his office.

There was a white package sitting on his desk. It had his name on it, but otherwise it was unmarked.

Harvey couldn’t be sure it was a bomb, but he wasn’t taking chances. He walked out of his office, yelled, “Everybody out! We need to evacuate the building!” and called 911.

“Harvey, what’s going on?” Rachel asked.

“Don’t panic,” Harvey replied, “But there _may_ be a bomb in my office.”

/\\-^|^-/\

It _was_ a bomb. Fortunately, the bomb squad was able to defuse it.

Afterwards, it fell to the Skeleton Crew to investigate. Harvey called Bruce to let him know that he was okay, to Bruce’s relief, and a few minutes later Batman arrived to help the Skeleton Crew out.

“Vernon thinks the mailman might have dropped it off,” Dent said. “I checked the CCTV footage, and the guy _did_ go into my office. It was a different mailman than usual, too.”

“Do you have the footage with you?” Bradley asked. In response, Dent showed Bradley a DVD case. “It’s on here,” he said.

Bradley took the DVD. “I’ll run facial recognition to see if we can get a match on the mailman. If we can determine how much of this he was in on, it might help us solve this thing.”

“In the meantime,” Batman said, “we’ll need to find the bombmaker.”

“I already took care of that,” Bennet said, walking into the room and turning on the projector. He also turned on the computer and loaded up a slideshow that the projector, well, projected on the board. “The make of the bomb matches this guy’s work,” he said as the projector showed a picture of a brown-eyed blond with a buzz cut. “His name’s Mickey Sullivan. He used to be part of the Red Hood Gang, before you took them down,” Bennet said to Batman, “but these days he’s associated with the Irish mob. He runs his own gang, with his brother Roger.” Bennet changed the slide to one showing a slightly older man, this one with a goatee and a mullet, but otherwise very similar.

“Who else is in the gang?” Batman asked.

“Aside from the brothers? There are seven other members,” Bennet replied.

“They seem like a small-time gang,” Montoya said. “They wouldn’t have the balls to try something like this unless someone was paying them to do it.”

“Someone like Maroni?” Yin suggested. She looked at Dent. “You _have_ been investigating the guy.”

Batman hummed in agreement. “Do you have a sample of Mickey Sullivan’s handwriting?”

“Actually, yes I do,” Bennet said. “ _And_ one for Roger too.” He handed Batman a file on the Sullivan brothers. The file’s contents included photocopies of letters written by the brothers.

Batman compared the letters to the handwriting on the package. “The address matches Roger Sullivan’s handwriting,” he remarked. “I can help you find him.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Montoya said. “We’ll find the guy together, but you’ll have to stay out of the arrest and questioning if we want to be able to use any confession he gives us in court.”

Batman nodded. “I understand.” His eyes scanned the part of the file concerning Roger. “There’s a bar he likes to frequent,” he said. “Even if he’s not there, asking around there will likely help us find him.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Alright Roger, here’s how this is going to go,” Bennet said. “We have your handwriting and your fingerprints on that package, so we _know_ you sent it. Sending a bomb to the DA’s office?” Bennet whistled. “You’re going to be in prison for a _long_ time.”

“Unless,” Montoya said, “you tell us who made it. Maybe then we can get you a lighter sentence.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Roger said.

“What my client means,” his lawyer said, “is that he’s not prepared to make any deals unless he gets it in writing.”

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Montoya said, placing a document on the table and sliding it over to the lawyer. “I think you’ll find those terms satisfactory.”

The lawyer looked through the deal and nodded. He turned to Roger. “You sign this and confess to sending the bomb, and tell them who _made_ it, and your sentence gets cut in half. This is the best option you’ve got right now.”

“Well I’m not taking it,” Roger grumbled. “I’m not going to become a rat just so I can get out of prison a few years earlier. I did it, and I’m willing to confess, but I am _not_ throwing anyone under the bus.”

**Eight Years Ago**

Linda Caspian nee Dawes could sense when something was bothering one of her children, and she definitely sensed that now. She knocked on her eldest child’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Linda opened the door and sat down on the bed, next to the teenager. “Alright David,” she said. “I know something’s going on, but what is it?”

The teenage goth sighed. “You know how dad is always going on about how I should be more like a ‘proper boy’?”

“If it’s bothering you, I’ll talk to him and get him to stop.”

“No! I mean… yes, it’s bothering me, but there’s more to it than that.”

“What is it, sweetie?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’ve realised that I’m not a boy at all. I’m a girl.”

Linda hugged her daughter. “Oh, sweetie… I’m glad you found it in you to tell me,” she said.

“So… you’re okay with having a trans daughter?”

“Of course I am,” Linda reassured her. “So I can’t exactly call you David anymore, can I?”

Linda’s daughter nodded. “Well, not when we’re alone. But I’m still trying to figure out what to use instead of my deadname,” she said.

“You know, before you were born, I was going to name you after my mother,” Linda said.

“You were going to call me _Agatha_?” her daughter asked.

“Actually, I was going to use her middle name,” Linda clarified.

“Oh. What’s her middle name again?”

“Rachel.”

Linda’s daughter smiled. “’Rachel,’” she repeated. “I like the sound of that.”

**The Present Day**

After the news of Roger Sullivan’s arrest and refusal to turn against his brother, the gang had come to the Astoria Towers Hotel – they knew the manager – to celebrate not being arrested. Unfortunately their leader was in no mood to party and they’d practically had to drag him here.

“Come on, Mickey, we got away,” Victor said. “That’s plenty of cause for a celebration!”

Mickey frowned. “My brother is in prison.”

“And he refused to betray us. We owe him for that. If he could see you right now, what would he tell you?” Mickey was silent, so Victor answered for him. “He’d tell you to stop moping around and drink some bloody beer. So do it.”

Mickey had to admit that Victor had a point. The gang the Sullivan brothers had put together still had their freedom thanks to Roger’s sacrifice, and he owed it to Roger to celebrate that freedom.

Twenty-five minutes later, all eight of them were very drunk. Between laughing, reminiscing about the good old days, and drinking, they barely noticed when one of the other two people in the bar walked out the door. Was it the old guy or the Italian bloke? Not long later, the guy who’d stayed, whichever one he was, went into the bathroom.

After ten more minutes, Mickey had an announcement to make. “I,” he said, “am going to the – _hic_ – the mens’ room… because I need… to vomit.” With that, he staggered off to the bathroom.

Once he was done emptying his stomach, he went over to the sink to wash his face. It was when he glanced up at the mirror that he realized someone was standing behind him.

The last thing he felt was the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of his head.

When the rest of the gang heard two gunshots from inside the bathroom, they panicked. In their intoxicated state, getting to their weapons was harder than it should have been. They didn’t even have a chance.

When the shooter stepped out of the bathroom, each of the gang members got shot in the head. Twice.

Then the shooter dropped the gun to the ground and walked out.

**Eight Years Ago**

“Hey, Bruce?” she asked. “Can we… talk?”

“Sure, babe,” Bruce replied. “What about?”

“Uh… God, I thought this would be easier… alright, here goes.” She touched her earring nervously. “For a while now I’ve been thinking about myself, about who I am, and eventually I realized I’m trans. Um… does that change anything? About, you know, us? Because if you’re not okay with this, we are _done_.”

“Babe, I’m still into you. I’m pretty sure I’m either bi or pan anyway. So no, you being a girl doesn’t change anything.” Bruce reassured her. “Do you, uh… do you need any help transitioning? Because I know HRT can be expensive, and I can help you out with that…”

“Thanks Bruce,” she said. “But I’m not ready to start transitioning right now. I still haven’t come out to my dad.”

“Well, still, if there’s anything you need…”

“I know,” she told him. “I appreciate it.”

“So, who have you come out to so far?” Bruce asked. “If it’s okay for me to ask that,” he added hastily.

“It’s okay,” Rachel said. “So far… my brother knows. So do my mom and my grandma. And now you. But that’s everyone.”

“I’m glad I was one of the first people you came out to,” Bruce said with a smile. “Um, can I just ask one more question?”

She nodded.

“Have you chosen your name yet?” Bruce asked.

She smiled. “I’m thinking… Rachel.”

Bruce nodded. “It’s a great name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make Rachel a trans character because it felt right, but since I'm not trans myself there is a risk that I got something wrong. I tried not to, but if I did accidentally write something offensive or stereotypical, please point it out to me so that I can correct it, or at least address it. Also, the reason I put these flashbacks in this chapter is because Rachel being a transwoman is going to be relevant in a few chapters, and this is as near as I could get without getting in the way of other flashbacks. The present-day scenes don't really have much to do with the flashbacks, it's just the way the chapter turned out.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. Let me know what you thought in the comments.


	18. Gods They Made

**Fifteen Years Ago**

Reverend Blackfire was not a fan of Mayor Galavan.

“As long as the mayor of this city is a _heathen_ , we are doomed! _Doomed_!” he proclaimed to his congregation. “Theodore Galavan is a known member of that _cult_ , the Order of St Dumas! If we let him, he will _destroy_ Gotham to build his palace atop it, and _sacrifice_ the rich to fuel his power! He will turn Gotham into the new _Sodom and Gomorrah_ , and the vengeance of the _Lord_ will rain down upon us for standing by! The only way – the _only_ way, my friends – to stop him is to _destroy_ him!”

His congregation cheered. The more moderate followers (and those who just opposed the excessive use of emphasis) had left a long time ago, leaving only the extremists. This worried many people.

If Blackfire’s words started inspiring violence, it would be bad for everyone. Falcone, Galavan, and the rest of Gotham’s rich and powerful would suffer, but not as much as the poor and vulnerable would. Blackfire and his folowers would become pariahs, which would only make them more extreme. And the poor and vulnerable would suffer even more.

Gotham would be thrown into chaos, and that, the criminal underworld agreed, was bad for business.

**The Present Day**

Even organized crime families took holidays sometimes. That’s why the Falcone crime family was taking a cruise on Carmine’s cruise ship, the _Maria Habanera_. Said family included Carmine Falcone – the don of the family – his sister Carla Vitti, and their brother Vincent Falcone, Jr; Carla’s husband Felice, and their daughter Lucia, as well as her two sons Gaetano and Romano; Vincent’s wife Louisa and their children Alberto, Mario, and Sofia; and Sofia’s husband Rocco Gigante and their two sons, Vincenzo and Luigi.

Right now, most of the family was by the pool. There were two exceptions.

The first was Alberto. He had stormed off after an argument with his uncle Carmine over the latter’s co-operation with the Maronis. Now he was fuming at the back of the sky deck, out of sight of the rest of the family. He looked over the guardrail and at the water below.

The second exception was Sofia. She had decided to follow Alberto to try to talk her brother down.

She was halfway there when she heard the two gunshots.

As she started running, she heard a splash.

When she got there, there was a .22 calibre shotgun on the ground and no Alberto Falcone to be seen.

/\\-^|^-/\

Things were going well with the Wayne Foundation. They even had their own building now, a city block in the East End. (Although the offices were only on the top floor, the rest of the building was mainly apartments that had been renovated to provide a high quality of life, but were being rented out at a low cost. After all, Bruce was the landlord and he wasn’t exactly short of money.) And, as per Bruce’s open door policy, if he was in and not busy, people could just walk into his office if they wanted to talk about something to do with the Foundation – whether it was asking for help, offering help, or looking for a job.

“Mr Reese,” Bruce said sourly when the lawyer walked into his office. He may have to revise the open door policy. “How may I help you today?”

“You can explain to me what the hell _this_ is,” Reese said throwing a folder down on Bruce’s desk.

Bruce opened it and scanned the text. “This is the Second Chances program,” Bruce said. “Giving ex-cons jobs at a liveable wage and helping them get back on their feet.”

“Exactly,” Reese said. “I know you have this ridiculous hero complex, but this is _not_ what you should be using Wayne Enterprises’ profits for!”

“Helping people get their lives back in order?”

“They’re criminals, Bruce! They don’t deserve help!”

“They’ve paid their debt to society,” Bruce said. “And _without_ help they’re much more likely to relapse, or worse. This country’s justice system is creating enough problems for them as it is, I’m just trying to reduce that.”

“And how will the investors react? Do you know how many of the people who own stock in Wayne Enterprises have also invested in private prisons like Iron Heights – the same prisons that stand to benefit the most from criminals relapsing?”

“I don’t, but I reckon they’ll react by dropping the company like it’s hot. Good.”

“Good!?”

“I don’t want anything to do with people like that,” Bruce said. “Faking a smile when I talk to them at galas is about as far as I’ll compromise.”

Reese ran his hand through his hair, and huffed. “This is _exactly_ what I was worried about. Bruce, if you go ahead with this, I’ll give what I’ve got to the press. And we both know you don’t want that.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The rest of the city had its own concerns: it appeared that the Riddler was back.

He’d broken into the headquarters of AbboTech, hacked several computers, stolen company data, and left a cypher on one of the screens. Then he left.

The next morning, the break-in was discovered and the GCPD was called.

Sergeants Yin and Bennet arrived at the scene after less than two minutes.

“Are we sure it’s the Riddler?” Yin asked. “He’s been laying low for a while.”

“Maybe he wanted to get back in the spotlight,” Bennet suggested. “Let’s check the keyboards for prints. We’ll try to solve the cypher back at the station.

**Fifteen Years Ago**

Theo Galavan sat down at the table where the man who’d invited him was already sitting. “We both know why you called me here,” he said.

“The New Heights Project,” Luigi Maroni said. “I want in.”

“The New Heights Project is a new dawn for the city,” Galavan said, “not a front for some criminal enterprise.”

Maroni barked a laugh. “You’re knocking down poor people’s homes to build expensive high-rise apartments. The only reason it’s _not_ a criminal enterprise is because lobbyists don’t want it that kind of thing to be illegal.”

“Well,” Galavan said with a shrug. “Semantics.”

“Anyway, I’ve got a problem: with Falcone running this city like the Inner Party, there’s barely anywhere for me to set up shop. And you’ve got a problem: you don’t have the money or the influence to pull off something like New Heights. I reckon we can solve _each other’s_ problems.”

“You help me make the New Heights Project into reality and I let you use it for racketeering and drug trafficking?” Galavan asked. “We have a deal.”

**The Present Day**

Alberto’s funeral was in three days. The body had washed up on the shore of Gotham, and Alberto’s siblings and parents had been called in to identify him.

This was the first time that any of them had been on _this_ side of somebody’s death. Usually they were the killers, not the ones left behind by the killer.

The cruise had been four days ago, and they’d identified the body two days ago. But even when she was in her uncle’s study, Sofia still felt like she’d never left that morgue.

Sofia glared at her hand, hoping it would stop shaking.

“I’ve been where you are right now,” Carmine told her. “Not _exactly_ where you are, but I did lose someone I loved once. It hurts like hell.”

Sofia looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Does it ever stop?”

“No. The alcohol helps.” He poured two glasses of wine. He offered one to his niece.

She took the glass. “Thank you, uncle.”

“You know what else helps?” Carmine asked her. He answered before she did. “Revenge. It doesn’t stop the pain, but it feels good for a while. Good until you remember the person you lost still isn’t coming back.”

“I’m going to find that son of a bitch,” Sofia said. “And I’m going to make him pay.”

“It’s a start,” Carmine said.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Two of the letters are the same as the last one the Riddler used,” Yin said, “and we never released the cyphers to the public, so this is either a crazy coincidence, or it really is him behind this. Either way, we know the last word has a ‘g’ and an ‘a’ in it. And there are nine different symbols, meaning there are nine distinct letters.”

“The first word has a letter, an apostrophe, and another letter,” Bennet noted. “That can only really be ‘I’m’.”

“So we know which symbols stand for ‘I’ and ‘M’,” Yin said. “They both appear one more time, in the last word of the cypher.” She crossed out those symbols on her copy of the cypher and replaced them with the appropriate letters.

“What about those next two words?” Bennet asked. “They’re both three-letter words, and the second one starts with the same letter that the first one ends with, but other than that they have no letters in common.”

“The ones that would make the most sense would be ‘the end’ or ‘not the’. But ‘the end’ would make the last word…” Yin struggled to pronounce ‘dtigma’. “’Not the’ would make the word ‘enigma’.”

“’I’m not the enigma,’” Bennet said. “He’s telling us he’s not Edward Nygma.”

“So who is he?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Please,” the man begged, kneeling in front of Sofia Gigante, “I don’t know anything!”

“Really?” Sofia asked. “Did those .22s just _appear_ in your store one day?” She shot him in the knee. The man screamed.

“Crybaby,” Sofia said. “Where were you getting the guns from? And don’t lie to me, or I _will_ track you down again.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, putting his hands up. “There’s this guy. In Chinatown. He’s called the Gunsmith. He moves around a lot, but…” he reached into his jacket pocket. Sofia cocked her gun. “It’s just a note!” he assured her. “It’s his latest address.” He handed it to her. She read it, and nodded.

“Thanks for the help,” Sofia said. Then she shot him in the chest.

Walking away from the corpse, she hailed a taxi and told the driver the address.

She didn’t notice the hooded figure watching her from the shadows of an alley.

**Fifteen Years Ago**

“What are you going to do about Galavan?” Grappa asked.

“It’s not just Galavan getting in bed with Maroni that I have to worry about,” Falcone said. “Blackfire is an issue too. And killing two reverends in a row would be putting me on thin ice in the afterlife. But maybe I can get my problems to solve each other.”

“Do you think you should use the Best Man?” Liza asked.

“No,” Falcone said. “No, this will require somebody less professional. I’ll have to make the set-up convincing.”

**The Present Day**

The Gunsmith owned a tea shop. It was a front for his real operations, but selling tea was a nice side business anyway. He was always ready to meet a new customer.

The bell rang. Someone had opened the door and entered the store. The Gunsmith put on his best smile. The fact that the customer was masked didn’t bother him, he had plenty of masked customers. “Hello,” he said. He tended to avoid honorifics unless he knew who he was speaking to. “What can I do for you today?”

Two bullets went through his head. The ‘customer’ dropped a .22 calibre on the ground, went down to the basement, and went back out a few minutes later.

/\\-^|^-/\

Edward Nygma was _pissed_.

Somebody was impersonating him. Stealing his thunder.

He had been the man who made the GCPD look like fools, had gotten his revenge on Essen for sending Kringle to trick him. To expose him.

And then this _fraud_ came along and took that all away.

Now everyone just thought Nygma had been a red herring. And that the Riddler would _ever_ be foolish enough to leave the same type of riddle two crime sprees in a row.

He glared at the photographs of the two riddles that had been left so far. He’d printed both, and pinned them to the cork board in his apartment. He imagined the imposter in his home, listening to him. “I don’t know who you are,” he told the impostor, “but I will find you. And I will kill you.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sofia Falcone wasn’t surprised when the address she’d been given led her to a tea shop. Even though there’d been little risk of law enforcement coming down on a criminal enterprise until recently, there had always been the risk of a rival criminal enterprise doing so instead.

So she also wasn’t surprised when she walked in and found the owner of the shop dead, slumped against the wall with a hole in his head. She _was_ , however, surprised to find the .22 calibre shotgun on the ground. She swore, then went down to the basement. That was usually where criminals with a front business kept the _real_ money makers.

She swore again when she saw the basement. There were still plenty of guns, but it had clearly been raided. The Mafia Killer was now armed to the teeth. He wouldn’t need another gun for a while.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Hey,” Yin said. “Do we have a lead on the Riddler yet?”

“Actually, yes,” Bennet replied with a grin. “We managed to get a couple partials off the keyboards that didn’t belong to the employees,” he said, holding up two photograph of partial fingerprints. “And we got the same match on both of them.”

“Great,” Yin said. “Who is it?”

“Coleman Reese.”

**Fifteen Years Ago**

Theodore Galavan had been shot.

He’d been giving a speech at a charity gala when a masked gunman ran up to the stage and shot him. The Mayor had been lucky to survive.

Now, Galavan was recovering in a hospital. And he had a visitor.

“Mayor Galavan?” Detective Bullock asked. “We’ve got a lead on the guy who shot you.”

“Finally,” Galavan said. “I was starting to fear for my life.” He frowned and added, “Again.”

“Do you know a ‘Jake Whispers’?”

“ _Know_ him?” Galavan scoffed. “He somehow managed to get into my office last month and started calling me a heathen.”

“Well, the week before you were shot he met with Reverend Blackfire,” Bullock said. “There are witnesses to corroborate that. And we found a gun matching the one you were shot with at Whispers’ house, registered to Blackfire.”

“You think they were working together to kill me?” Galavan asked.

“It’s one of the possibilities,” Bullock said. “But Whispers _is_ our best suspect right now, and from what you’ve told me he does seem to have a motive.”

**The Present Day**

Reese was in Bruce’s office at the Wayne Foundation’s building, shouting at Bruce.

“I warned you what would happen if the Second Chances program went ahead, Bruce! And you didn’t listen, so now it’s time for you to learn that indulging your hero complex _does_ have consequences! You can’t just run around doing what you want because it _happens_ to fix a problem!”

“I know that!” Bruce snapped. “But this isn’t getting somebody killed for not letting a mob boss get what he wants. This isn’t making a child find out that her father is a murderer. This? It’s giving a second chance to people who need it. What is wrong with that?”

“It’s going to run Wayne Enterprises into the ground, that’s what’s _wrong_ with it!” Reese yelled.

“Then let it! I’ll start a new company if I have to, but the Foundation exists for a reason and it’s a more important reason than any corporation!”

Reese was about to respond when Sergeants Montoya and Bennet walked into the office. “Coleman Reese, you’re under arrest on suspicion of breaking and entering and corporate espionage,” Montoya said while Bennet cuffed Reese. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Dr Guerra was a coroner at the city morgue. His job meant he saw a _lot_ of dead bodies, so he’d become somewhat desensitized to them.

“Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m the life of the party in here,” he said to his recorder. “I mean, liven up!” he told one of the corpses. “Still, a job’s a job.” He turned off the recorder and entered the changing room. A few minutes later, he exited, out of his work clothes and in a navy blazer and navy khakis.

He stopped.

“That’s a gun,” he said. The person holding the gun to Dr Guerra’s face nodded. And fired twice.

The Mafia Killer dropped the .22 calibre on the ground before walking away.

/\\-^|^-/\

“He was talking to you when the Riddler broke into AbboTech,” Alfred said.

“I know,” Bruce replied.

“You could give him the alibi he needs,” the butler added.

“I _know_ ,” Bruce said.

“So why aren’t you doing that now?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said.

“I do,” Harriet said. “It’s because he got in your way. He figured out your secret and he tried to use it to force you to stop helping people, and to hell with anyone who tries to pull something like that. Am I right so far?”

“Yes,” Bruce admitted.

“But that’s not you,” Harriet said.

“No,” Bruce agreed.

**Fifteen Years Ago**

Reverend Blackfire got into his car and turned the key in the engine when he noticed somebody sitting in the back of the car. He turned his head sharply to see who it was.

“Good evening, Reverend,” Galavan said. “Surprised to see me out and about already?”

“Get out of my car, heathen,” the Reverend said.

“Or what? You’ll try to kill me again?” Galavan grinned. “That didn’t work last time, and it won’t work this time either.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blackfire said.

“Oh please,” Galavan scoffed. “It was you who gave Whispers that gun. Now, I already took care of _him_. That just leaves you.” He pulled out a gun.

He fired.

“Hail St Dumas,” Galavan said, stepping out of the car. “We’ll need to be ready,” he said to his bodyguard. “Blackfire’s congregation _will_ suspect me, and they will be out for blood. At least some of them will go after me, unless we go after them first.”

“Understood, sir,” the guard said. “I shall prepare the Sword of Azrael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashbacks in this chapter serve three purposes: 1/ they set up some plot threads for a few years down the line, 2/ they show that for all Falcone says about his intentions, being part of the Gotham mafia has molded him into a ruthless and manipulative man, and 3/ I've been referencing the song Sympathy for the Devil in the titles of every chapter that has Falcone-related flashbacks, so I kind of had to do a chapter titled 'Gods They Made' at some point.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	19. The Power of Names

**Eight Years Ago**

Rachel stormed into Bruce’s study in a huff.

“Is everything okay?” Bruce asked.

“ _No_ ,” Rachel told him, sitting down on the sofa next to him. “My father is a dick.”

Bruce looked at Rachel and moved towards her. He put his hand on hers. “What did he do?”

“It was when all my relatives were visiting. You know, because of the graduation.” Bruce nodded. Rachel continued. “Dad stayed, and the next day when he mentioned he was going to stay to see his son graduate, I took that chance to tell him I was trans…” she trailed off.

“He screwed it up, didn’t he?”

“At first, he thought I was joking,” Rachel said. “Then, when I told him I was serious, he said I was just confused.” She frowned in disgust. “Before he left, he said that I’d ‘come back to my senses sooner or later.’” Rachel growled in frustration. “Why can’t he see that this is who I am?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Bruce said. “An idiot who can’t be bothered to change his worldview when it turns out to be wrong, so he just goes into denial.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Rachel said. She looked down at herself, at her private school uniform. “I need to change.”

“The dresses you bought are in your room,” Bruce said. They’d gone shopping two days ago, to try to find Rachel some clothes she felt more comfortable in. Since they hadn’t known how her father would react, and he was staying at the family apartment more and more, they’d kept the clothes at Wayne Manor and Bruce set aside a room for Rachel to keep them in. “Once you’re ready, we can play Mario Kart or something,” he suggested.

“Thanks,” Rachel said, kissing him on the cheek. “And I will kick your _ass_ at Mario Kart,” she added with a grin.

**The Present Day**

“The GCPD has arrested Coleman Reese,” the news anchor said. “The lawyer is their latest suspect for the criminal known as the Riddler.”

“No, no, no!” Nygma screamed at the screen. “ _I’m_ the Riddler! I _beat_ the GCPD! The _Riddler_ doesn’t get _caught_!”

Naturally, the anchor couldn’t hear him and continued. “Reese’s fingerprints were found on several computers at AbboTech following the break-in.”

“No! It’s not _him_ , it’s _me_!” Nygma screamed. “Do you people _really_ think the Riddler would leave the same kind of riddle during _two_ consecutive crime sprees?”

/\\-^|^-/\

The Gotham Museum of Art was full of pretentious works, so nobody really paid much mind to a papier-mâché bomb – the kind usually found in cartoons - next to a sign that proclaimed it to be a real bomb.

That is, they didn’t pay much mind until the bomb started smoking.

In Gotham, everybody knows when to start running. The museum was empty in seconds. Edward Nygma, wearing a green suit, stepped into the room through the smoke, and got to work.

/\\-^|^-/\

“He only took the one painting?” Montoya asked.

“That’s right,” the curator replied. “I don’t understand _why_ he chose this one, though. It’s a good painting, but there are many better ones.”

Montoya looked at the empty frame. The thief had cut the painting out of the frame, and left graffiti of a lock and a question mark in its place. “What was the painting _about_?” he asked.

“It was inspired by the 1879 explosion at the Gotham City Central Station,” the curator replied. “The painter’s grandmother had been one of the survivors.”

Montoya swore. “Of course. The fake bomb, the stolen painting – this whole theft was just an elaborate bomb threat.”

“I’ll call bomb squad, tell them to get to the station,” Bradley said. “The lock could mean the bomb’s in a locker.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Bomb squad ran up one of the sets of stairs into the train station. “Everybody, leave the station!” the lead cop announced.

This caused a panic. At least the station employees helped lead everyone out of the station in a semi-orderly fashion.

When they were sure everyone was safe, they started searching the lockers for a bomb. Eventually, one of them found it.

“It’s a plastic explosive,” she said into her radio, defusing the bomb. “There’s something taped to the side. A note.” She took the note off the bomb. “Scratch that. It’s a riddle.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“That’s two riddles in as many crimes,” Bradley said. “You think this guy might be the Riddler, not Coleman?”

“It doesn’t fit his M.O., though,” Montoya said. “Last time we faced him, the Riddler was using cyphers.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a perp’s changed their M.O. between crime sprees,” Essen said, looking over their shoulders at the crime scene photos. “Remember Julian Day?”

“I wasn’t even in high school when that happened,” Bradley said.

“ _I_ was still in the Academy,” Montoya added.

“Great,” Essen said. “Now I feel old. Anyway, it’s happened before.” And ended Hugo Strange’s FBI career, as well as leaving the GCPD distrustful of the FBI, but that’s another story. Essen noticed something. “It _is_ the Riddler,” she said. “Look.” She pointed to one of the photos. There was a reflection in the glass of a window, barely in the camera’s line of sight. A familiar face.

“Is that…” Bradley began.

“Nygma,” Montoya said. “Seems like he’s pissed off at Reese for getting the credit. What’s the plan?”

“I’ll handle it,” Essen said.

**Eight Years Ago**

Linda was yelling at Judson. Quietly, so that the kids wouldn’t wake up, but yelling nonetheless.

“She is your daughter! And you… you’re denying her who she is!? Do you have any idea what that does to a child!?”

Judson raised his hands defensively. “I’m not denying anything. It’s all of you who are… just going along with this crazy phase of his!”

“ _Hers_ , Judson! She’s a girl, despite what you might want! And I think she has a better understanding of her own gender than you do!”

“No! _I_ know better! I mean, he’s just a teenager! They don’t know _anything_ about themselves!”

Linda growled in exasperation. “I cannot _believe_ I’m hearing this! I knew who I was when I was a teenager, and so did you! And so! Does! She!”

“Will you stop encouraging him!?”

“Encouraging her to do what!? Be who she is!? Why the _hell_ would you want that!?”

“Fine,” Judson hissed. “I see I’m not welcome here anymore. I’ll come back when this family has come to its senses.” He turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Linda had to stop herself from throwing something at the door. She took some deep breaths, then turned around. And she saw Rachel and Alex watching her.

“How much did you hear?” she asked her kids.

“All of it,” Rachel replied. She was almost crying.

Linda walked up to her kids, and hugged them.

“Does this mean dad’s not coming back?” Alex said.

“Alex,” Linda began. She took a deep breath and admitted, “I don’t know.”

“I hope he doesn’t,” he replied. “Rachel needs a better dad than he is.”

“I _don’t_ need a dad,” Rachel said. “I just need mom. And you.”

**The Present Day**

“Commissioner Essen,” Nygma said, opening the door. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“No kidding,” Essen said.

“You can’t prove I did it.”

“No,” Essen admitted. “But we will, sooner or later. Because nobody knows that it’s the Riddler doing this. They’ll all think it’s some copycat. So you’ll make yourself more obvious – obvious enough that we’ll catch you. Or you could just make it easy on us and turn yourself in.”

“You’ll have to do one thing for me first,” Nygma said.

“What do you want?”

“Three-one-four-one, six-two-three, zero-zero-six-six, seven-six-six-three,” Nygma said.

“What does that mean?”

“Shouldn’t you know?” he asked. “It’s something Kristen said after I found out she was spying on me.”

Essen grinned.

“What?” Nygma asked suddenly worried. “What are those numbers?”

“They’re the signature on your confession,” Essen replied. She turned around and walked away.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Kristen and I had a code in case anything went wrong,” Essen explained to Montoya on the phone. “She was the one who came up with it, and wrote the whole thing down in her notebook. She’d use the first three digits of physical and mathematical constants. Each constant meant something different, and these ones…” she stopped in front of a brownstone. “Lead to her safehouse. Which is here.”

She opened the door and walked up the stairs. Kristen’s code told her to go to the 3rd floor, so she did, walking into the corridor. She’d have to check the rooms one by one, starting with the first door on her left.

“Kristen, you genius,” she said when she saw what was there.

The room was filled with computer screens, ledgers, and files. Sarah remembered Kristen’s fractal filing system… and there it was. A file with a flash drive inside it. When she put it into one of the computers, a window appeared on the screen and a video of Kristen started playing.

“ _Sarah,_ ” Kristen said. “ _If you’re seeing this, something’s happened to me. I’m glad the message found its way to you. This place is where I’ve been keeping everything I have on Nygma. I was going to get everything from here once I found something conclusive. I took every contingency I could – the rent is paid automatically from a bank account I set up funded by several shell corporations. I know, I know, it’s borderline money laundering._ ” Kristen laughed, and Sarah laughed with her. “ _Anyway, if you found the flash drive that means you’ve_ finally _remembered my filing system. So you’ll know where to find everything we…_ ” Kristen paused and took a deep breath. “ _Right. If you’re watching this, that means I’m not around. Everything_ you _need to put Nygma away._ ” The video stopped.

Sarah wanted to watch it again just to keep hearing Kristen’s voice, but there was work to be done. She navigated her girlfriend’s filing system to find anything that could be evidence against Nygma. And oh, there was a lot.

/\\-^|^-/\

Nygma ran up the stairs of the brownstone. He had no way of knowing which floor Essen had go to, so he’d just have to check each one individually.

He had to stop her. He couldn’t get caught! Criminal masterminds don’t get caught!

The first floor had been a bust. No Essen, but he _did_ run into one heavily armed old woman and one _very_ angry poodle.

That meant there was a fifty-fifty chance that she was on the second floor. He started picking the lock on the first door to his left.

“Edward Nygma, freeze!” Montoya shouted.

Nygma turned around to see Montoya and Bradley aiming their guns at him. He swore.

“Alright, I have no intention of getting shot,” he said. “Read me my rights and let’s get this over with.”

/\\-^|^-/\

After that, Nygma was put on trial and convicted. This didn’t prove Coleman Reese’s innocence, since Nygma pled guilty to all of the Riddler’s crimes _except_ for the AbboTech robbery. In fact, he claimed that part of the reason why he resumed his crime spree was because he had been insulted by the idea that he’d continue leaving _cyphers_ instead of finding a new kind of riddle.

Nevertheless, since he was already pleading guilty his trial was swift. It was only a week later that he found himself the newest inmate at Arkham Penitentiary. He soon settled into a routine, which was made easier by the lack of visitors.

“Nygma,” the guard said. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Well _that_ was annoying. He got out of his bunk and let the guard escort him to this visitor.

Oh. He wasn’t been taken to the visiting room, he was being taken to a cell. Whoever this was, they wanted to be alone with him.

And then, as he entered the cell and the guards locked the door behind him – he noticed they didn’t stay inside, which was unusual – he saw who his visitor was. A short, stocky, blond man with a buzz cut and a grim expression.

“Edward Nygma,” the man said. “My name is Colonel Rick Flagg. I’m here on behalf of the Advanced Reconnaissance Group.”

Nygma raised an eyebrow. “I _knew_ you guys were real. So Noah Kuttler wasn’t a raving lunatic after all?”

“That’s classified,” Flagg said. “Let’s get down to business: my superior has suggested you had potential as a recruit for an operation we’re planning. In this city, actually.”

“On American soil? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Not when we’re investigating a threat to domestic security. So: are you in?”

“If what Kuttler’s said about you guys is true, I don’t really have a choice,” Nygma replied, “do I?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Part of Nygma’s confession was disclosing the location of Kristen’s body. Essen had asked for that personally. They found her, where he’d said they would. Buried in the woods, in a box.

It hadn’t even been a coffin. Sarah clenched her fists in anger just thinking of that.

At least Kristen was in a coffin _now_. Her body had been put back together by the mortician, too. She’d had a proper funeral.

Sarah thought there was nothing worse than not knowing whether her love was alive, but there was. She’d had to recite a eulogy at the wake – the eulogy that she had written the month after Kristen had gone missing. At the funeral, she’d had to watch as her love was lowered into the ground.

Everyone else had left, but Sarah stayed. She couldn’t bring herself to leave yet.

She noticed Montoya standing next to her.

“We never talked about religion much,” Sarah told her. “We sort of… we agreed that if there _was_ an afterlife, then we’d either end up in the same one or she’d end up in Heaven and I’d end up in Jannah, but we’d find a way to get to visit each other anyway.” She smiled bitterly. “She always thought we’d both be old women by the time that happened. I was always worried I’d go young – even back then, my job wasn’t exactly safe. I was willing to take that risk if it meant doing the right thing, but I was _terrified_ of the idea that she’d be left alone.”

Montoya looked at her.

“She wanted to have kids,” Sarah said. “Not anytime soon, but one day. When things were safer, when Gotham was safer, she wanted to adopt. A boy and a girl.” She blinked away a tear. “I guess that won’t be happening now.”

“I can’t imagine what this must be like,” Montoya told her. “Hoping for so long that _somehow_ she was still alive, only to have your worst fears confirmed, to find out she’d been dead for all that time. But… what I _can_ imagine is that it hurts. And I’ve seen how cops deal with that kind of pain. It’s not… it helps, sure, but it’s not healthy. So… if you ever want to talk to someone. You know. We’re here for you. All of us.”

“Thanks,” Sarah said, looking away from Kristen’s tombstone for the first time. “I think I’m going to stay here for a while longer. Just… process things.”

Montoya nodded. “I’ll see you around, Commissioner.”

**Eight Years Ago**

Rachel had always excelled at school. It had made sense for her to skip a few years, which was why she was graduating high school early. Two weeks before her graduation, all of her family had visited to celebrate having a child prodigy in the Dawes family.

Of course, they’d all thought that they had a _male_ prodigy. And the one visiting relative who had promised to stick around for her graduation still thought so, despite being told otherwise.

Still, it was time for Rachel’s graduation. Her mother was still trying to make ‘Rachel’ her legal name – and until that was the case, the school would continue using her deadname – but even with Alfred and Bruce helping, it was taking a long time. So for now, she’d just have to grin and bear it.

“David Caspian,” the principal said.

_Grin and bear it, Rachel_ , she thought to herself as she walked up to the podium. The principal handed her a diploma, she smiled and thanked him, then turned to look at her family, and Bruce and Alfred.

She had expected her father not to be there, but it still hurt seeing an empty seat where he should be.

She walked down off the stage and sat down between her mother and Bruce.

“Hey,” Bruce said. “You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah,” Rachel said. “I’m good. I’ve graduated high school, haven’t I?”

“Two years early,” Bruce added. “And thanks to you, I know what these things look like.” Bruce had quickly decided that the American education system was too slow and horrifying for him, so he’d had Alfred (and, for a short time, his parents) home-school him to fast-track himself into university.

“So,” Rachel’s mother asked. “Have you decided on a university yet?”

“I’m thinking… Harvard,” Rachel said. “Gotham U’s great, but Harvard has a more famous law school.”

“Harvard will be lucky to have you,” Bruce told her. As for him, he’d already started business and engineering at the University of Gotham. He had to admit to himself, Rachel going to a different university was probably for the best. He didn’t want _his_ reputation on the campus as a smartass to affect _her_ university experience.

“Of course they will,” Linda agreed.

They watched the rest of the students get their diplomas before Rachel spoke up again. “Mom?”

“Yes, Rachel?”

“When you have my name changed… I think I want it to be Rachel _Dawes_ ,” she said.

Linda Caspian nee Dawes smiled. “Rachel Dawes it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of ARGUS is the Augmented Research Group of the United States, basically a hipster CIA. You can expect them to show up in the next few chapters. You can also expect Rachel's father (who, as a reminder, has already appeared in the present day to complain to Harvey about making a deal with Lawton) to show up in the present day - he and Rachel are estranged because he's a transphobic jackass, he expects Rachel to want to reconnect with him despite the fact that he hasn't changed at all, and Rachel's done putting up with him. I won't give any details away, but that's the gist of it.  
> If anything I write is insensitive, stereotypical, or offensive - please let me know. I'll do my best to fix it and I will avoid making such mistakes in the future.  
> I decided to make Sarah a Muslim (Jannah is either the Muslim version of heaven or the Arabic word for heaven, I'm not sure) because I had the idea and thought it would work. Incidentally, since I imagine Essen as Latinx, that makes her a WLW (I haven't decided what her sexuality is yet) Muslim WOC Commissioner of the GCPD.  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed reading this chapter. I'll be taking a break for a week because of half-term and then I'll be posting my Mass Effect fic, so you can expect the next chapter on the 10th of June.


	20. Operation Arkham

Bruce entered the interrogation room and sat down across the table from Coleman Reese.

“It’s about time,” Reese said.

“Let’s make a deal,” Bruce told him. “I’ll vouch for you – give you the alibi you need – _if_ you give me everything you have linking me to Batman.”

Reese scoffed. “You really think I’ll give that up so easily? Bruce, _I_ have the advantage here.”

“Really?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Because _you’re_ the one who’s in jail, and I’m the one who can get you out. And while I don’t exactly _want_ you to reveal my secret identity to the world, it won’t make things _too_ difficult for me. I can still keep doing what I’m doing – as Batman _and_ with the Wayne Foundation. I might have to make the latter more covert, but that was one of the first scenarios I prepared for since Bruce Wayne came back to Gotham.”

Reese tried to tell if Wayne was bluffing. He couldn’t stop any tells. Bruce’s face was almost a blank slate, aside from that cocky smile.

Reese sighed. “Fine. You’ve got a deal. But you _are_ getting me out of here.”

Bruce handed Reese an NDA. “Sign this, and then I will.”  
  
“You’re not taking any chances, are you?” Reese asked as he parsed the text. Bruce had been careful: it didn’t  _explicitly_  say that Reese was covering up Bruce’s vigilante actions, just that he wouldn’t reveal information to the public that could harm Wayne Enterprises’ profits without the consent of the majority shareholder. If Reese wanted to argue in court that it was an agreement to cover up a crime, he would have to not only prove that Bruce was Batman but also that he knew that Reese knew that at the time that Reese had signed the contract.  
  
He signed it. Now, if Bruce confirmed Reese’s alibi, Reese would be bound by the contract to not disclose any knowledge of a connection between Bruce Wayne and Batman.

/\\-^|^-/\

Arkham Penitentiary had a robust security system. The Advanced Reconnaissance Group’s operatives needed a complex plan to beat it. First, Nygma – a model prisoner – got a job in maintenance and planted an ARG device near the generators. When the time was right, the EMP went off and the power shut off. Now their _other_ ‘operative’ would have ninety-five seconds to get inside before the secondary generator turned on.

Catwoman climbed over the fence, ran across the yard, and picked the lock on the door. She opened it, and stepped inside to the prison block. She was halfway to Nygma’s cell when the lights turned back on.

She ducked behind a corner when she saw a guard approaching.

The guards were the _least_ of her problems. She’d have to stay out of the way of the CCTV cameras lining the corridor too. She remembered their placement on the Arkham blueprints, and the designs of the cameras themselves. Before the mission had started, she’d marked out their blind spots on the blueprints. There were no permanent ones, but depending on where the cameras were looking she could make her way across the corridor.

The guard passed her.

Selina looked at the cameras, waited for her moment, and raced across the corridor. She moved along the wall to keep out of the cameras’ sights. In this uneven zig-zag pattern, she made her way to the cell block where Nygma was.

The lights were out in the cell block anyway, but there were guards walking around with flashlights. She’d have to keep out of their way.

That part was easy. What was slightly more difficult was getting the key card to open Nygma’s cell. Timing was key.

She placed a flashbang on the ground, then walked along the cell block a bit further. She stood still, pressing herself against a wall, and waited for the guard to walk past. When he did, the flashbang went off – she’d timed it perfectly – and Selina quickly reached out and swiped the key card from his belt. The guard didn’t notice, running off to investigate the explosion.

She moved further along the cell block until she got to Nygma’s cell. She swiped the key card in the lock, and the door opened. Nygma got out of his bunk. “So _you’re_ Flagg’s other operative,” he whispered. “Cat ears? Really?”

“At least my M.O. isn’t telling the cops how to catch me,” Selina responded. “Now go, before the guards notice.”

He left the cell, and Selina locked the door behind him. “Where are they keeping the Joker?” she asked him.

“He’s in Block A,” Nygma replied. They were in Block H. Eight cell blocks away.

“That’s still Gen Pop, right?” Selina asked. Psych Ward had much tighter security.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Then we’re good.”

They evaded the guards all the way to Block A, where Selina used the key card again. She and Nygma walked in to the Joker’s cell and pulled him out of his bunk, then dropped him on the ground.

That woke him up.

“Rude,” he said, getting to his feet. “Uh, who are you two?”

“I’m Catwoman,” Selina said. “This is the Riddler. We’re here because a government agency is blackmailing us to break you out.”

“Huh,” the Joker said. “Lead the way!”

Selina did, but first she left the key card in the Joker’s cell. “The guards will be on alert by now,” she said. “We _may_ need a few distractions.” She tossed a flashbang into an adjacent corridor.

/\\-^|^-/\

“What happened?” Batman asked.

“We’ve found an EMP,” Bullock told him. “Miniaturised, which is pretty advanced tech. It took out the generator.”

“Nygma probably planted it – he _was_ working maintenance, after all. Whoever got in must have done so in the ninety-five seconds before the secondary generator turned on,” Batman said. “The first flashbang distracted the guards – that was probably when she swiped the key card and got Nygma out.”

“’ _She_?’” Bullock asked. “You think this is Catwoman?”

“She scaled a wall, ran across a prison yard, picked the lock on the door – and it’s a complicated lock, judging by the schematics – and got _at least_ halfway to Nygma’s cell, if the time the cell door opened is anything to go by, all in ninety-five seconds. It’s her.” He looked around the Joker’s cell, seeing the key card on the ground. “So _this_ is unexpected,” he said.

“Uh… what are you talking about?”

“The key card. She just left it there, why would she do that? For that matter, why would she break the Joker out in the first place? And after she and Nygma got him out, there’s the trail of flashbangs. They’re a distraction, yes, but why would she make that much of a spectacle when she was getting the Joker out, unless…”

“Unless?” Bullock asked. “You know, I can’t read your mind Bats. I’m not a Martian.”

Batman was about to respond that Martians didn’t exist, and if they did they couldn’t read minds, but there were more pressing concerns. “She didn’t _want_ to get the Joker out. Someone’s forcing her to do this. And everything I know about her tells me she’s going to find a way to rebel against them. Probably using me.”

He left the prison. The last flashbang had gone off outside the prison. There were four roads adjacent to the prison, and the flashbang had gone off on the east one, so Batman went west, using his flashlight to spot anything unusual.

There. By the road, there were tire tracks. An off-roader? A jeep, if he had to make a guess. He inspected the tracks closer. Judging by the depth, it was heavier than an average jeep. An armoured car? It would make sense, the miniaturised EMP _was_ advanced military technology. If he was a paramilitary – or just military – group breaking a sociopath out of a prison, he’d want to stay hidden. The jeep would be either black, grey, or blue.

“You’re looking for a black, grey, or blue armoured jeep weighing about six thousand pounds,” he told Bullock when the cop caught up with him. “Whoever put this operation together has access to military technology, so you might want to cross-reference that with sightings of paramilitary types. Also, find out if Nygma had any visitors since he got to Arkham.”

“What will you do?” Bullock asked.

“The exact same thing,” Batman replied. “But first, I’ll need to get my other suit.”

/\\-^|^-/\

When Rachel got to work, her father was there, standing outside the door with his cane in his hand.

“David,” he said.

“That’s not my name,” she reminded him.

“Yes it is,” he replied aggressively. “It’s the name _I_ gave you.” He sighed. “Look, David, you’re my son. Can we just talk about whatever it is I did to make you do this? I want to do better.”

“You want to do better,” Rachel repeated. “Then how about this: me being trans has _nothing_ to do with you. Me making it clear that I want nothing to do with you? That does. I told you who I was and you hated me for it. You still do, I’m guessing.”

“I don’t hate you, Da-“

“If you deadname me _one more time_ , I will make damn sure you’ll regret it,” Rachel interrupted him. “But that’s the thing. You don’t care. Just like you don’t care who I am, just who you expected. If you actually gave a crap about being a dad, you’d pull your head out of your ass and ditched your transphobic worldview, but _no_!” She stepped closer to him. “This is where I work,” she said, dangerously calm. “Unless this ‘visit’ of yours is to do with a case we’ve taken on, you have no right to come here and talk to me that way. So leave. Now.”

“This isn’t over,” Judson Caspian said. He stepped back, turned around, and left.

Rachel entered the building and got to work, but she knew that for once, her father had been right. This wasn’t over. The only way it would be is if she ended it herself. And she was getting an idea for how to do just that.

/\\-^|^-/\

The interrogation room was cold, dark, and had eighteen-inch walls. Soundproof. The Joker was sitting at the table, his left hand cuffed to a table leg.

“And there I thought I’d seen the last of you in Khadym,” Flagg said.

“Do I know you?” the Joker asked.

“Don’t play games with me, clown, we know it’s you,” Flagg growled. “You used the clean slate, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what that means,” the Joker told him.

“Of course you do. There’s a reason you’re not turning up in any database.”

“Probably,” the Joker agreed. “So which ones _should_ I be in?”

“You’re not the one asking the questions here. Where did you get it?”

“Where did I get what?” the Joker asked, obliviously.

“The clean slate!” Flagg shouted, rising from his chair.

The Joker looked up at him. “Now, if you’re planning on enhancing your interrogation tactics, can I give you a piece of advice?” he asked. “Don’t start with the head. The guy gets all woozy, and he can’t feel the next-” The Joker stopped talking and screamed, because Flagg had stabbed a knife through the clown’s right hand, pinning him to the table.

“Start talking, or I stab your other hand.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Alfred parked the van a few blocks away from the warehouse in the Industrial Quarter. He was wearing a balaclava for the sake of anonymity. “You’re sure this is the place?” he asked.

“There have been sightings of some sort of paramilitary group in this area, and jeeps like the one that was outside Arkham,” Bruce said. “And if _I_ was them, this is where I’d hide out.” The warehouse _was_ a tactical advantage – the street was the only conventional way to or from the building, so they had more control over who got there, and the warehouse was a large, empty space that could easily be made into a temporary base.

Alfred sighed. “Right then. Just… Bruce? These people managed to get a visit with Nygma in record time, slip him a piece of advanced military technology, then have all evidence of the visit conveniently disappear except. They might be something more than paramilitary. Be careful.”

“I’m _already_ being careful,” Bruce said. He was wearing the old tungsten armour – he’d replaced the shattered plate from when he fought Arthur – and his belt contained flares, flashbangs, thermite, smoke bombs, and electric knuckledusters. He was even wearing night vision goggles over the cowl (modified with larger eye holes), so he could see in the dark without using a flashlight. Assuming there weren’t any superhumans, he had a reasonable chance of winning.

He got out of the van, climbed up onto a nearby rooftop, and made his way to the warehouse.

Getting in was easy, but if he wanted to get back out afterwards he’d have to take out the guards. That part was easy too – all Batman had to do was wander the perimeter, picking off the guards one by one with silent takedowns. He noticed the guards were wearing badges, so he read one to see who he was up against.

The badge had a stylised eye on it, surrounded by the inscription ‘Advanced Reconnaissance Group for the United States’. So they were real then?

Clandestine groups could be expected to be paranoid, so Batman assumed they’d installed some sort of alarm on the doors and windows. Picking the lock would set it off and take too long, smashing a window would still set it off but be a much quicker solution. Fortunately, he remembered to take a wrench.

Predictably, the alarm went off. Looking inside, he spotted a box in the middle of the warehouse, about the size of an interrogation room. So that was where they were keeping the Joker. He threw a smoke bomb threw the window, entered the warehouse, then threw two more smoke bombs to either side of the first one to increase smoke coverage.

He could hear the guards running towards him through the smoke. They were smart enough not to use guns in the low visibility, which restricted them to close-quarters combat. _His_ area of expertise.

And when they got close to him, Batman took them down almost effortlessly. One got a few lucky hits in, but then Batman judo-flipped him and knocked him out with a kick to the head.

Now that he’d reached the box, there was another problem: he had no time to pick the lock and no idea how thick the walls were. So he applied the thermite, ignited it, and stepped back.

When it had finished burning a hole through the wall, the door opened from the inside and a man in military uniform stepped out. “Whoever you are,” he growled, “that was a mistake.”

Batman tossed a flashbang at him. “Who are you? And what does the Advanced Recon Group want with the Joker?”

“So you know who you’re dealing with?” the man shrugged. “In that case, I’m Colonel Rick Flagg. And the clown was an asset who went rogue, which is _more_ than you need to know.” Flagg drew a gun and shot at Batman.

Batman anticipated that and jumped out of the way, then turned that leap into a barrel roll to get himself closer to Flagg. He got to his feet and grabbed the gun in Flagg’s hand, turning the safety on and ejecting the ammo clip. He wrenched the weapon free from Flagg and threw it away, but Flagg retaliated with a kick to Batman’s gut. The armour meant that it did more damage to Flagg’s foot than Batman’s abdomen, but it still sent the vigilante sprawling back, through the doorway and into the interrogation room.

The Joker was there, pinned to the table by the knife through his right hand. When he saw Batman there, he started laughing.

“Am I about to be rescued?” he asked. “Hold on.” He dislocated the thumb on his left hand, slipped out of the handcuffs, and pulled the knife out of his other hand. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Turns out, that hurts and I don’t want to do it again.” He stood up and walked up to Batman, who was fighting Flagg again.

“Lead the way, Bats!”

Batman smashed his knuckleduster into Flagg’s face, then tackled the man to the ground before repeating the hit. Two more times, and Flagg was dazed. Batman stood up and grabbed the Joker by his right arm, pulling the clown out from the interrogation room.

The smoke was starting to clear, and the guards had gathered around all the exits. This would be difficult.

Then there was an explosion.

Most of the guards ran towards the source of the explosion, leaving three men guarding the door to the warehouse. That was easier.

Batman got ready to fight all three of them.

/\\-^|^-/\

Catwoman and the Riddler watched the guards split up, either fighting Batman or investigating the explosion. “I think _both_ of our distractions worked,” the Riddler said, picking the lock on a window.

“The explosion was _our_ distraction,” Catwoman said. “Bringing Batman here was _my_ idea.”

When the alarms had gone off, half the guards watching them had left. The other half had been easy to beat. But if they wanted to have a decent chance of getting out, they needed a distraction – so they had cooked up a home-made bomb and lit the fuse. Right now, they were on the other side of the warehouse.

The Riddler opened the window and he and Catwoman got out.

Standing on the rooftop, Catwoman looked around and saw Batman shove the Joker into the back of a van, then get in the van himself, and shut the door. The van drove off, ARG operatives shooting at it.

Batman was alive. “Thank God,” Selina muttered.

“You’re not actually _glad_ he’s alive?” the Riddler asked.

Selina ignored that. “Flagg’s going to be after us. For that matter, so is his boss.”

The Riddler nodded. “We’ll need some way to get them off our backs.”

Catwoman took out her phone and called someone. “Phoenix?” she said. “Yes, I know you told me not to call you that, but this isn’t a ‘real names’ situation for me.” She listened to her friend’s response. “The Riddler.” Selina winced. “We’re not working together, we’re _stuck_ together. The freaking Advanced Recon Group drafted us. Which is why I need you two to do a bug sweep of the apartment, get rid of them _and_ all our phones and computers, then go into hiding, like we practiced.” Phoenix said something else, and Selina smiled and said, “I’m worried about you too.” Then she hung up and turned to the Riddler. “Right now, we just have to get as far away from here as possible. We’ll strategize later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the most you're getting in terms of the Joker's origin story for now. As for Selina and Edwarde being blackmailed by ARGUS, the next chapter won't focus on this subplot much, but the one after that will.


	21. Who Killed the Kennedys?

Selina came back into the car with takeout. “I’ve got the eggrolls,” she said, giving the eggrolls to Holly, “the won tons,” she gave those to Arizona, “and the chow mien for me.”

“Did you get the fortune cookies?” Holly asked.

“I don’t think they make ones that say ‘you will not be on the run from a secret government organisation for long,’” Selina replied. “But yes.”

“Yes! You are awesome!”

“Even though you’ve got us living out of a stolen car,” Arizona said.

“It’s just until Nygma and I find a way to get Flagg’s bosses off our backs. I’ll have to get rid of everything they have on me.”

“What about Sam?” Holly asked. “Aren’t you worried about him?”

Selina sighed. “Yeah, I am, but… he’s not ‘in the know,’ you know? And he can’t be. He’s law enforcement, if he finds out what I do he’ll either try to arrest me or try to get me to stop, and neither of those is happening.” She remembered her last significant other. “Besides, I’ve been burned before. I can’t take that risk again.”

“So you burn your bridges instead,” Arizona said. “But this time, you’re bringing us along, and if something goes wrong _our_ bridges will get burned too.”

“I’m only doing this to keep you safe,” Selina said. “I don’t… Sam, Bruce, Ethan, Harvey, Rachel, and the rest of them, I can imagine leaving them behind. I wouldn’t like it, but I've ditched people like them before. You two, you’re family.”

“Thanks,” Holly said. “So, what’s the deal with your hair?”

“I figured I’d have to go under the radar at some point,” Selina said. “So I styled my hair to be as distinctive as it could be without being too obvious. All I have to do,” she said, taking off her hood, “is cut it short, straighten it, and go blonde.” She looked at her altered appearance in the car mirror. “Then I just ditch the makeup and lipstick, and hey presto, I’m almost unrecognisable.”

Holly turned her attention back to the fortune cookie. “’You will gain clarity from an epiphany about yourself,’” she read. “Huh. Wonder what that means.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“Salvatore,” Carmine greeted his rival.

“Carmine,” Sal replied. “I’m guessing you know why I’m here.”

Carmine poured himself a glass of wine. “Because you’re worried about Dent.” He offered a glass to Sal, who declined. “You’re worried he’s getting close, and you won’t me to make sure he won’t.”

Sal nodded. “So? Are you going to do that?”

“No,” Carmine said.

Sal glared at him. “What did you just say to me, old man?” He stood up and loomed over Carmine. “I think you’re forgetting what I’ve got on you. All it will take is passing _one_ recording to your dear sister, and your family will fight itself to death. Just like what happened with Calabrase.”

Carmine looked up at him. “If I was you, Salvatore, I would be more careful about who I threaten. I may be old, but I am also dangerous, and I don’t think you want to risk angering me.”

Salvatore scoffed. “What can _you_ do? You don’t even have your favourite assassin anymore! Or do you honestly expect me to believe that Grappa _wasn’t_ the Best Man?”

“I don’t need an assassin to make you regret your words today. I could just… let nature take its course,” Carmine shrugged. “Lawton’s testimony, once the GCPD finds the paper trail to back it up, will lead to your arrest. Dent will put you on trial, and you’ll be convicted. You’ll end up in prison. Arkham, maybe. Or Blackgate. There are plenty of people loyal to me in both of those prisons. They took the fall for me, and in return I pulled strings to keep them safe and comfortable. The old ones teach the newer people the tricks of the trade. And they all know who my enemies are. So,” Carmine said, “if I were you, I would be _very_ careful about who I threaten.”

Sal turned around and walked out of the room.

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce and Harvey were having dinner at one of the cafes in the Old Village that Bruce frequented.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m a hero,” Bruce said, “I just think that I can do something to make people’s lives better, and someone _has_ to do that, so I should be doing it.”

“Bruce, that’s what a hero _is_ ,” Harvey said. “You’re a hero.”

“Alright, fine, I guess I can stand being called a hero,” Bruce conceded.

“Speaking of you being a hero, what are you doing with the Wayne Foundation these days?” Harvey asked.

“I’ve actually had a great idea for that,” Bruce said, grinning. “I’m calling it the ‘Second Chances’ program – basically, the Foundation’s going to give living wage jobs to ex-convicts who are trying to get back on their feet.”

“Bruce, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Harvey asked.

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked him. His grin was smaller now.

“We both know the rate of relapse in this city,” Harvey said. “If you invest in these people, and they go back into crime anyway, then that’s going to look bad for you _and_ the Foundation.”

By now, Bruce’s grin had become a frown. “Harvey, the reason ex-cons go back into crime is because they don’t have the opportunity to live an honest life. I’m going to be giving them that.”

“They _do_ have that opportunity,” Harvey said. “And they don’t take it. If they just worked hard enough, they wouldn’t _have_ to commit crimes, but they choose to become criminals anyway.”

“You’re not seriously… most of them can’t even get jobs, and when they can it’s usually a minimum wage job, which is _less_ than a living wage, how are they supposed to get back on their feet just by working hard?”

“I managed it, and I didn’t have money growing up,” Harvey said.

“Your dad owned his own home, and you were university-educated,” Bruce told him. “A lot of criminals can’t even say either of those things about themselves.”

“Alright,” Harvey said. “What about drug abuse? Or _violent_ crime?”

“Most frequent drug users are addicts,” Bruce said, “they’re ill, and they need help recovering. And not all violent crimes are the same – that’s why manslaughter is different from murder. The Foundation will take the context of each person’s crime into consideration when we decide whether to employ that person or not.”

“It sounds to me like you’re too willing to take a chance on these people,” Harvey grumbled.

“It sounds to me like you’re not willing _enough_ ,” Bruce responded in the same tone.

There was an awkward silence for the next five minutes, then they both got up to leave. They went home separately.

/\\-^|^-/\

“Sergeant Montoya!” Detective Bradley called when he saw his mentor. “You’ll never believe this.”

“Bradley, a flying man saved our asses a few weeks ago,” Montoya said. “At this point you could tell me there’s a guy in red pyjamas who can run faster than sound because he was struck by lightning, and I’d be tempted to believe you.” She hesitated. “That’s not what it is, is it?”

“Not this time,” Bradley replied. “But it’s almost as good: we got Maroni.”

“You found the paper trail?”

“Connecting Maroni to Lawton,” he confirmed. “I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t told me where to look. Dent and I owe this to you,” Bradley told her. “Want to join me on the arrest?”

Montoya was grinning in excitement. This _was_ her first mob boss takedown, after all.

**Eleven Years Ago**

Liza walked into the room. Carmine was sitting in his armchair, staring at the fireplace. There was a bottle of wine on the table next to him, and it was almost empty.

“Carmine?” she asked. “Can I get you anything?”

“They were my friends,” he muttered. “They were this city’s hope too. And now they’re dead.”

Of course. She should have known that was what this was about. She approached him and took the wine bottle from him. “So you want the man who killed them taken care of?” she inquired.

“No.”

Liza raised an eyebrow. “Carmine?”

He sighed. “Thomas and Martha were this city’s hope. If their killer just disappears into the night, the city will lose any chance of that hope. And then there’s the boy. He needs to see that man brought to justice. He needs to know that the system _does_ work sometimes.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I want to find out who killed my friends,” Carmine growled, “and I want to see him brought to justice.”

**The Present Day**

Rachel was leaving her office when she ran into Bruce.

“Uh... what are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m actually waiting for Harvey,” he said. “We kind of… had a fight.”

“I heard,” Rachel said. “I mean, he told me. I actually agree with you on this one.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said. “Uh… how’s things with you?”

“My dad showed up last week.”

“Let me guess: he’s still as bad as ever.”

“I used to think he’d accept me eventually,” Rachel said, “but I guess I was just being naïve. At least I won’t have to put up with him much longer.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked.

“I mean that Gotham’s anti-discrimination laws mean that repeatedly and deliberately misgendering someone is harassment,” Rachel said. “Harassment is grounds for a restraining order, so I’m filing for one.”

“And since you’ve always been a kick-ass lawyer, you’ll definitely get that restraining order against him,” Bruce said with a smile. “I have to say, it’s an effective solution.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said.

Bruce nodded. “Anyway. I’ve got to go and see Harvey.”

“See you around,” Rachel told him.

“You too.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Maroni was stewing in his cell.

A _cell_.

Bail denied.

He wanted to tear his hair out and scream. His father had trusted him with the family, and less than a week after the man’s death, Sal was stewing in a jail cell, bail denied.

A guard announced he had visitors. The cell door was pulled open and Stefano Mandragora, his consigliere, stepped inside, followed by Sal’s son Pino.

“Hey, dad,” Pino said. “You really screwed up this time, didn’t you?”

“Pino!” Stefano snapped. “Show some respect to your father!”

“No,” Sal said. “He’s right. My father trusted me with this family, and _this_ ,” he gestured at the cell he was in, “is how I honour his memory? Ha!” He laughed bitterly. “But at least, I can have my revenge on Falcone for sending me to rot.”

“What do you mean?” Stefano asked.

“I’ll need you to get to the storage unit downtown,” Sal said. “You know the one. There’s a flash drive in there, labelled C.F. Send it to Carla Vitti.”

“What’s on it?” Pino asked.

“You don’t need to know,” Sal told him. “Neither of you. Just get it where it needs to be and watch Falcone’s empire collapse.”

“I think you’ll make your father proud after all,” Stefano told him.

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce knocked on the door to Harvey’s office.

“Come in,” Harvey said.

Bruce entered. “Hi. I brought whiskey.” He held up a whiskey bottle.

Harvey smiled. “Look, Bruce… you were right. About the ex-cons, I mean. I just… my father had very strict ideas about justice and he raised me to believe the same ideas, and that if we make exceptions to that we might as well decide who’s guilty by flipping a coin.” He laughed bitterly. “So, this… it’s hard for me to reconcile that with what I know. But I’m trying.”

Bruce put the bottle down on Harvey’s desk and put his arms around Harvey. “I’m glad,” he said. “But even if you weren’t, I wouldn’t let that change _this_.” He kissed him. Harvey kissed him back.

It was… more intense than expected.

“Are we really going to do what I think we’re going to do?” Bruce asked when they broke apart.

“Maybe,” Harvey said. He looked around his office. “Here?”

“Sure,” Bruce said.

/\\-^|^-/\

Carla Vitti stormed into Falcone’s study. Liza chased after her. “You can’t come in here!” she said, reaching out to grab Carla.

Carla whirled around. “Don’t. Try. It,” she snarled. Liza backed off.

Carmine turned around to face her. “What is it, Carla?”

“You know damn well what it is, Carmine!” she shouted, pointing at him accusingly. “You _murdered_ my son!”

Carmine looked at her in silence.

“What?” she asked. “No denial? Not even an attempt at justification? Did he mean that little to you?”

“I had to make a choice, and I did. I made the choice that could keep us _and_ the city safe. He didn’t listen, and he almost got an innocent child killed,” Carmine said. “So I made another choice. It wasn’t an easy choice to make, but it was necessary if I wanted a chance of protecting us from the GCPD.”

“And there it is,” Carla sneered. “The excuse. God, I- you murdered your own nephew, and you’re making excuses!?”

“You’re right,” Carmine said. “I can’t justify what I did. But it was what I had to do.”

“Bull! When you did that, you declared war on the Vittis!”

“A war would be the worst option for all of us, Carla,” Carmine said.

“Then how about this,” she suggested. “Give me the bastard you sent to kill my son. We both know it wasn’t Grappa. I want the Best Man, and I want him dead.” She turned around and stormed out.

Liza, still in the room, looked at Carmine, then walked out and closed the door behind her.

/\\-^|^-/\

“You’re sure he’ll be here,” Nygma said. It wasn’t a question.

“I know his patrol route. The time with the fake Batmen, I needed to learn it so he wouldn’t run into one of them by accident. He hangs around the East End a lot, and he should be here sometime about… now.”

Batman was racing across rooftops when he saw them and took a detour. He approached them silently from behind, then cleared his throat.

Nygma jumped. Catwoman just turned around calmly.

“I knew you’d show up,” she said. “So, you know how he,” she gestured to Nygma, “and I broke the Joker out of Arkham a while ago?”

“You were working for the ARG,” Batman said. “Which doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“That’s because it isn’t. They’re blackmailing me. I need _you_ to help me find them and get in, so that _he_ ,” she gestured to Nygma again, “can get rid of everything they have on me.”

Batman hummed, then looked at Nygma. “What do you get out of this?”

“I get to outsmart a government conspiracy,” Nygma said. “That’s enough for me.”

“So,” Catwoman said. “Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal,” Bruce said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is another Sympathy for the Devil reference because the chapter has another Falcone flashback. The full line is "I shouted out 'Who killed the Kennedys?' when after all it was you and me," which I think applies really well here because ultimately the Wayne's deaths were caused by the crime and corruption that Carmine contributed to with his takeover of the Calabrase crime family.
> 
> As for the argument between Harvey and Bruce, I wanted to set up that in the same way that their perspectives on the law's relationship to justice contribute to making them who they are. Bruce became Batman because he saw the grey areas but little else, while Harvey's black-and-white view will contribute to his becoming Two-Face as he starts to lose faith in the system. You could arguably extend this idea to Selina as well, since even before ARGUS showed up, she didn't exactly trust government agencies or the law. This would mean that Bruce focuses on the situations where whether the law is just or not is unclear, Harvey focuses on the situations where the law is just, and Selina focuses on the situations where the law is unjust.
> 
> I've left the state that Gotham is located in ambiguous - there are arguments for placing it in New York, as an equivalent to NYC; Michigan, as an equivalent to Chicago; New Jersey (maybe as an equivalent to Atlantic City?); and in its own fictional state. The consensus seems to be that it's in the North-east, and near a large body of water, but that's about it. However, I have taken inspiration from New York's anti-discrimination laws, which state that deliberately misgendering someone is punishable by a fine. I imagine that Gotham has similar laws, and while I don't have any legal expertise, I'd imagine that they could be used to make the argument that Rachel makes here. I'm not sure if that holds up. If not, I'll try to figure out a way to change the explanation so that it does.
> 
> The next chapter will finish the ARGUS storyline for now, but it will have ramifications in the sequels. Part of my long-term plan is that the scope of Batman's "mission" will gradually expand, which will lead to him interacting with entities like ARGUS more often.


	22. The Fort and the Wall

Judson Caspian was in a board meeting at his munitions company when a goateed man wearing jeans, a blank t-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap knocked on the door. He was holding a square cardboard box.

“I’m busy!” Caspian barked.

The man knocked again. “I’ve got the pizza you ordered,” he said.

Caspian got out of his chair, ignoring his aides’ warnings, and opened the door. “I didn’t order any pizza!”

The man opened the box. There was no pizza inside, just a piece of paper. A court summons. “You’ve been served,” he told Caspian.

/\\-^|^-/\

The three conspirators met in the East End, at an address Batman had given the other two. Batman led Catwoman and the Riddler down into a bunker hidden beneath the city. “There’s dozens of bunkers like this one,” he explained. “I use them as auxiliary bases of operations when I need them.”

Catwoman looked around. The bunker was a single, dark, and Spartan room. “Cozy,” she said. “So what’s the plan? How do we deal with the ARG?”

Batman unfolded a map of the state. “This,” he said, pointing to a military installation just outside of Gotham, “is Fort Morrison. Officially, it’s been abandoned since the end of the Second World War. _Un_ officially, there are rumours that it’s been in continuous operation since 1959.”

“The year the Advanced Reconnaissance Group was founded,” Nygma said.

Batman nodded. “Exactly. If they have a base near Gotham, this will be it. I don’t know what kind of security measures they’ve added, so we should be ready for anything. The advantage we _do_ have is that I have the blueprints for the base as it was in 1941. It will have remained unchanged between then and 1959.”

“Show me,” Catwoman said. “If I know how it’s put together, I’ll be able to give us a rough idea of _how_ the ARG might have upgraded the security and _where_.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Mario Falcone welcomed his sister into his home. He’d always been a humble man, still a part of the Falcone criminal empire but not a very active part. Unlike other Falcones, the height of the luxury that he afforded himself was the moderately expensive detached house Norchester, Gotham’s most suburban borough. “Aunt Carla, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he said.

Carla hesitated, then replied, “You too.”

Mario noticed her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

“Mario, you know that this family has had its share of hard times recently,” Carla said. “First Johnny, then Milo, and then Alberto… we’ve lost three people in less than a year.”

Mario nodded gravely. “Do not worry, Carla. I’m sure things will be over soon.”

“That’s the thing,” Carla said. “At least one more person will have to die. And unless your uncle – my brother – gives him up, a lot more than one person will die.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Carmine had Johnny killed,” Carla said. “It was the Best Man who did it.”

Mario’s jaw dropped. “Oh God,” he said. “Wait… do the Vittis know?”

“Of _course_ they know,” Carla said. “I told them. And they’re baying for blood. But I don’t want more people to die than is necessary, so here’s what I’m suggesting: you turn against Carmine. Sofia’s in the Gigante family already, so you could stand to inherit the Falcone family for yourself. Either convince the rest of the family to get rid of him, or convince _him_ to give up the Best Man.”

Mario took a deep breath. “Carla, I can’t do that.”

“Please, Mario,” she said. “I only want to prevent bloodshed.”

“I know, but – I can’t betray Carmine,” he said.

Carla turned around. She couldn’t face him while this happened.

“Then you leave us no choice,” she told him as she left the house. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Two men with bazookas stepped out of the armoured car and fired at Mario Falcone’s house. The suburban building went up in a fiery explosion.

/\\-^|^-/\

“So who’s your driver?” Catwoman asked.

They were getting to Fort Morrison in the Bat-Van (‘don’t call it that,’ Batman had told her when she’d come up with the name), driven by an old man in a balaclava. He hadn’t said a word since they’d met. They were in the back of the van, preparing for the mission. Catwoman had been trying to strike up a conversation with Batman while they got ready. The Riddler, meanwhile, was staring at one of the van’s walls in concern.

“He’s one of my parents,” Batman said.

Catwoman was pretty sure she saw the driver smile at that.

“Is that a bullet hole?” Nygma asked, still staring at the wall.

“The ARG’s work,” Batman confirmed.

“I’d be more comfortable if the getaway van was bulletproof,” Nygma complained.

The driver stopped and turned off the engine.

“We’re here,” Batman said, opening the rear doors. “Let’s go.” He stepped out of the van.

Catwoman followed suit, Nygma behind her. Of the three of them, Batman was the most armoured – he was wearing the same suit he had been when he broke into Flagg’s warehouse, and although there was fabric covering the armour, he looked slightly bulkier than usual. Not many people knew what he usually looked like well enough to notice, but Catwoman was one of the few.

Batman had also outfitted his belt with a lot of combat equipment – everything from knuckledusters to flashbangs. He had his throw knives there too, probably because a bat-shaped throw knife was kind of iconic.

She’d mostly gone with her usual costume, but instead of purple leather, she’d gone for black. In her pockets, she had her multitool, climbing equipment, glass cutters, and smoke bombs. She was also wearing her trademark gloves, with the claws attached. She was also carrying a car battery – Batman was their main fighter, so he had to have his hands free, and Nygma’s part in the plan meant that having him carry the battery would be a terrible idea.

Nygma was wearing some clothes they’d bought from a thrift shop – a green cloak over a green t-shirt and blue denim jeans. He also had a bag with a laptop inside. The laptop had been provided by Batman, as had the bag.

They approached Fort Morrison through the woods. They had to duck behind trees a few times, to avoid the headlights of the jeeps patrolling the area. Finally, they got close enough to the fort’s walls for the next stage of the plan.

Nygma had stayed fifty paces behind for now. He could still see the searchlights atop the fort through the trees, but he was also a safe distance away from his accomplices. Batman knelt by the wall, and took a device out of his utility belt. It was a magnet with wires coiled around it, connected to a plastic box that had a switch on the outside. The box had been part of the EMP device Flagg had given to Nygma. Batman had asked Bullock for the device and tried to salvage what he could, and replace the rest. Catwoman set the car battery down on the ground next to the crude EMP generator, and connected the wires around the magnet to the battery.

Batman flipped the switch and the searchlights went dark.

In fact, thanks to the boost from the car battery, the EMP had (hopefully) reached far enough to take out the power generator.

Nygma raced towards them while Catwoman scaled the wall, leaving handholds and footholds embedded in it that Batman and Nygma would be able to use.

Unfortunately, Nygma couldn’t pull himself far enough up the wall, so Batman grabbed his wrist and pulled Nygma over the wall himself.

Once the landed on the other side, it was time for step three. They were in Fort Morrison, now they had to find out where the server room was.

They ran towards the inner wall, and kept close to it until a guard investigating the EMP came within range. Catwoman swiped the guard’s radio and knocked him down with a sweeping kick, then Batman grabbed the guard and slammed him against the wall, holding his right hand over the guard’s mouth. With his left hand, he pressed the blade of one of his knives against the guard’s throat. He used his elbows to pin the guard to the wall, the fins on his gloves folding under the contact.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Batman whispered. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. If you scream, I’ll move the knife far enough to the right to slit your throat. If you’re smart, you’ll give us the directions to the server room. We’ll knock you out, tie you up, and leave you here – oh, and I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying, and if you are I’ll make you regret it. Understand?”

The guard nodded.

“Good,” Batman said.

The lights came back on, so the three intruders ducked into a corner, taking the guard with them. Batman took his hand off the guard’s mouth. “So,” he said. “Where are the servers?”

He told them. Then Batman punched him and the guard fell unconscious. Catwoman threw his radio away, and stole his key card.

“He’ll be found soon,” she said, while Batman put the guard in zip ties. “The other guards will wake him up, and he’ll tell them where we’re going.”

“I know,” Batman said. “But he wasn’t lying about the servers, so at least we know where to go.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Nygma questioned. “Let’s _go_.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The GCPD headquarters was buzzing with tension. Hundreds of cops were there, getting ready to fight for Gotham.

Commissioner Sarah Essen stood in front of the Commissioner’s office, overlooking the bullpen. She cleared her throat. Every cop in the building was watching her.

“As you all know by now,” she said, “a few hours ago, Mario Falcone’s house was blown up by two men with bazookas. Eyewitness descriptions suggest that they were two of the Vitti family’s enforcements, and Carla Vitti was seen leaving the house before they fired. She then got into the car with them and drove off.

“We don’t know what provoked Mario Falcone’s murder, but we know one thing for sure: this is the start of a war between the Falcones and the Vittis, and Carla has just chosen her side. The Falcone family will be split between Carla’s supporters, and the loyalists who still follow Carmine Falcone. We don’t yet know which side Vincent Falcone will choose, let alone the Gigante family. This is going to be chaos, and people will want to take advantage of that.

“Every criminal from two-bit thugs to wannabes like Zucco, to what’s left of the Maroni crime family will want to get involved, to take their bite out of the Falcone empire. This will turn into an all-out war, and that will mean civilians will die. It’s our job to stop that happening, no matter what. Let me make one thing clear: if you’re faced with a choice between bringing a criminal in, and saving a civilian, save the civilian.

“We’ll have to start by going after the sharks: there’s blood in the water, and we don’t want anyone else to start biting. If we keep this contained to the Falcones, the Vittis, and the Gigantes, we might have a chance of ending this with minimal losses. Now get to work.”

/\\-^|^-/\

They managed to get into the server room, and the Riddler took out his laptop and plugged it into a server. He typed rapidly, hacking into the code.

“How long until you’re in?” Catwoman asked.

“This _is_ a complicated code,” Nygma said. “It’s going to take a while.”

“We have five minutes until the guards get here,” Batman said.

“Genius cannot be rushed, Batman,” Nygma said. “If you _were_ one, you’d know that.”

“I _do_ know that,” Batman said. “But _you_ can definitely be rushed.”

“Boys,” Catwoman said, rolling her eyes, “you can have a brain-measuring contest later. Right now, we’ve got work to do.”

“I’m in,” Nygma said at last. “I’m assuming you’re not going to tell me your name,” he told Catwoman, “so you’ll have to erase yourself from the system.”

“Give me that computer,” Catwoman said. Nygma got out of her way. Catwoman looked at Batman.

“We’re working together on this,” Batman said. “I won’t try to find out who you are right now. Maybe next time you commit a crime.”

“Good to know,” Catwoman said. When Batman and Nygma looked away, she found her name in the ARG files and selected the file. Then she deleted it. “And I’m free,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That might be difficult,” Batman said. “There’s half a dozen guards right outside the door.”

Catwoman shrugged, unplugging and closing Nygma’s laptop. “We can take them. Nygma, try not to get in the way.”

“You can count on _that_ ,” Nygma said. “Unlike _you_ two, I have a decent sense of self-preservation.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Carla Vitti’s butler entered the room. “Don Vitti, there is a visitor here for you,” he said. “A ‘Miss Liza.’”

Carla raised an eyebrow. “Send her in.”

Liza walked into the room meekly. She was wearing gloves and a trenchcoat.

“What do you want?” Carla asked.

“I wanted to ask you…” she said. “I wanted to ask you to stop this war and forgive Carmine.”

Carla glared. “You must be insane if you’re seriously asking me that. How the _hell_ do you think you’re going to convince me?”

Liza glared back. “For years, I did everything I could to protect Carmine. That’s why I’m here. It’s also why I put a bullet in his nephew’s head.”

“ _You_?” Carla hissed. “ _You’re_ the Best Man?”

“Well, I thought the misleading name would be a good idea,” Liza said. “And yes. I am.”

“You just made a huge mistake,” Carla said. She took her gun out of the holster on her shoulder…

And Liza drew her own gun, a .22 calibre shotgun she’d hidden under her trenchcoat, and shot Carla in the head. “It was all to protect him,” she said, pulling the trigger again. The butler ran back into the room, so Liza shot him too.

She dropped the gun and walked out of the house.

Liza got on her motorbike outside and drove away. She’d have to throw her gloves into the lake later.

/\\-^|^-/\

Rick Flagg was about to leave the command centre to apprehend the three intruders, when his superior stopped him. “Don’t chase after them,” she said.

He turned around. “You’re just going to let them leave?”

Amanda Waller smiled. “This was never about Kyle or Nygma. They’re valuable assets, to be sure, but…” she clicked the mouse on her computer and a video appeared on the screen in front of them. Bruce Wayne speaking to Coleman Reese.

Flagg heard what Wayne said, and he couldn’t believe it. “Bruce Wayne is Batman?”

“I suspected that Wayne might have a secret, and Reese might be in on it, so I set Reese up. Either we’d offer him a deal and he’d tell us what Wayne was hiding, or Wayne would unwittingly out himself to us. And now we have security footage of Bruce Wayne working with an escaped felon and a known criminal to break into a government facility.”

“We’ve got another asset,” Rick realized. “When will we use him?”

“When we need to. But I’m not looking to turn the Batman into an operative just yet. This is more like insurance. Wayne’s been going after bigger fish with every win he got, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be stopping. Sooner or later, he’ll go after us.”

/\\-^|^-/\

At some point, a routine becomes so constant, you don’t even have to think about what you’re doing. After Rachel texted him that the hearing was done and she was on her way, Harvey walked to the restaurant where they always had lunch, sat down at their usual table, and placed the same order that they always placed. Rachel entered the restaurant at about the same time that the waiter placed the food and drinks on the table.

“How did it go?” Harvey asked Rachel when she sat down at the table.

“I got the order,” she said. “He can’t come within one hundred feet of my home, or my place of work, and he can’t attempt to contact me in any other way.”

Harvey smiled. “Well then, this is a cause for celebration,” he said, raising his glass. “To cutting toxic people out of our lives,” he said.

“Hear, hear,” Rachel said, clinking her glass against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this latest chapter.  
> Fort Morrison isn't my idea, I got it from a fanfic called Batman 1939: The Dangers of Being Cold, on SpaceBattles. It's a really great story, and I highly recommend it. As for the scene with Liza... part of that reveal is true, part isn't. I'm not going to make things that simple.


	23. Confessions and Trials

At Wayne Manor, Bruce was giving Harvey a tour of the house.

“This,” he said, opening a door, “is the study.”

Harvey walked in and looked around. “More like a library,” he observed. “How many books are _in_ here?”

“Hundreds,” Bruce replied. “But there’s an _actual_ library in the northeast wing, and that one has thousands of books.”

“Have you read all of them?” Harvey asked jokingly.

“If you picked one out at random, from either here _or_ the library, and opened it to a random page, I’d be able to recite that page from memory,” Bruce said.

“You’re kidding,” Harvey said.

“Nope,” Bruce replied. “I have eidetic memory. I remember everything.”

“Huh. That’s something I didn’t know about you until today,” Harvey remarked.

Bruce looked towards one of the bookcases. “Well, here’s something else not many people know about me.” He took one of the books out of the bookcase. There was a click, and Bruce pulled the bookcase aside. It swung on hinges connecting it to the wall – it was essentially a door, and behind it was a small room, with shelves in the back. On one of the shelves was a suitcase.

Bruce took the suitcase off the shelf and gave it to Harvey. “Open it,” he said.

Harvey opened it and looked inside. “No way,” he said, looking at the bat costume. “ _You’re_ Batman?”

Bruce nodded.

“But he’s been around longer than you were back in town.”

“I laid low for a while – as Bruce Wayne, anyway.”

“Who else knows?”

“Alfred, Harriet, and Harold all know. So does Leslie, and so does John Blake – he’s a kid in the East End. Coleman Reese figured it out, but after… recent events… I got him to sign an NDA. And now you know too.”

“Why are you telling me now?” Harvey asked.

“Well, we’ve been dating for weeks,” Bruce said. “I figured I should start being honest with you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harvey said, kissing Bruce.

Elsewhere in Gotham, in Selina Kyle’s penthouse, two other people were having a similar but different discussion. Sam and Selina were sitting on the couch. Selina had called Sam to talk to him.

“Sam…” Selina began. “I haven’t been _entirely_ honest with you,” she admitted. “There’s parts of my life that I haven’t told you about.”

“Selina, you can tell me anything,” Sam assured her.

“No. No, _this_ is something I can’t tell you. If I did, you’d have to choose between me and your job, and I know how important being a cop is to you.”

“Whatever is going on, we can work through it,” Sam said.

“Maybe we can, but…” Selina sighed. “I don’t want you to have to make that choice.”

“So you’re breaking up with me,” Sam realized.

Selina was silent.

“I love you,” Sam said, “but… if whatever’s happening is making you think we can’t be together, I can respect that. Just... I wish you’d tell me what was going on.”

Selina looked at him. “I wish I _could_ tell you, but I can’t,” she said. “So… yeah. I’m breaking up with you.”

Sam stood up from the couch. “I’ll miss you,” he said as he walked towards the door. He opened the door, walked out, and closed the door behind him.

A few moments later, when she was sure he was out of earshot, Selina said, “I love you too.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Edward Nygma was drinking a pint of Guinness when Batman walked into the bar.

He knew it was Batman because several of the bar’s other patrons had suddenly stopped whatever they were doing and were watching the newcomer warily, and everyone else was watching said newcomer excitedly and taking photos on their smartphones.

Also, he could see Batman walking up behind him in a mirror.

They’d gone their separate ways after escaping from Fort Morrison – Catwoman had set off one of Batman’s smoke grenades, sucker punched Batman, and ran from the van into a getaway car that she’d had her friends park near where they’d set off on the mission in the first place. Nygma had used the distraction to make his own escape, but he was expecting Batman to show up eventually.

And here he was.

“You know,” Nygma said. “I was going to finish this drink and then skip town. But I’m guessing you won’t let me do that.”

“Nope,” Batman said. “I’m going to have to bring you in – and unlike _her_ , I know who you are, which made finding you a lot easier.”

“And since I’m an escaped fugitive, this is a citizen’s arrest,” Nygma concluded. He turned around and held out his wrists. “Alright. Cuff me.”

Instead of cuffing Nygma, Batman just led him out of the bar. “The GCPD will be here soon,” he said. _Now_ he cuffed Nygma, the handcuffs connecting his left wrist to a lamppost. “They’ll take you back to Arkham.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sal Maroni’s lawyer was on the verge of throwing a fit. “We had a good deal!” he said, as Maroni was escorted out of the interrogation room. “You plead guilty, and you get the minimum sentence! Why would you turn that down when you’re screwed either way?”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Maroni said. “I’m not going to plead guilty. I’ll make them _prove_ I am.”

The lawyer groaned. “You’re a mob boss. You barely _have_ principles!”

They stopped. There was a figure in a trenchcoat standing in front of them, staring at them. Their face was covered by shadows, and they were wearing a hood.

“Who the hell are you?” the guard asked.

The figure raised a shotgun and aimed at Maroni.

And another guard slammed into the gunman, wrestling with them for the gun. Eventually, the guard disarmed and cuffed them, then pulled their hood down.

The gunman was Alberto Falcone.

The gun was a .22 calibre.

/\\-^|^-/\

Rachel was working in her office, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she said.

Two reporters entered. Two reporters who she recognized.

“Ms Vale, Mr Knox,” she greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually,” Vale said, “it’s more about what you can do for us.”

“We struck gold last year thanks to Batman,” Knox said. “Twice, in fact. But then Metropolis had to upstage us with a flying man in tights who fought a mad scientist in the body of a gorilla in plain view of the whole city.” He frowned. “The fact that I just said that sentence in a serious context makes me want to drink a lot of alcohol.”

“Anyway,” Vale said, giving Knox a concerned look, “we were looking for another story when you ended up on the news.”

“Ah,” Rachel said. “This is about my father.”

“No,” Vale said, “this is about _you_ , Gotham’s first openly transgender assistant district attorney – _and_ a woman – rising to prominence in your profession, then taking on your transphobic father and succeeding in cutting him out of your life. Do you know how many people that will inspire? How many kids will see you as a role model as they grow up?”

“How many newspapers will be sold because my name’s in the headline?” Rachel asked sarcastically.

“Just… think about it,” Vale asked. “You know my number. Have a nice day, Attorney Dawes.”

Vale left the office, and Knox looked around. “Oh, we’re leaving? Okay.” He followed Vale. “See ya,” he told Rachel before closing the door.

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Alberto Falcone,” Montoya said as she entered the interrogation room. “You should be dead.” She looked at him. “You seem pretty alive to me. Not at all like someone shot you in the head with a .22 calibre. Twice. So how did you do it?”

“I snuck the gun on board the yacht,” Alberto said. “When I was alone, I put on my gloves, took the gun out, and fired two shots. Then I dropped it on the ground and jumped into the water. I swam underwater so they wouldn’t see me.”

“What about the body?”

“I’d already found one that looked like me earlier,” Alberto said. “I paid a plastic surgeon to make the corpse look even more like me, then I put it in a freezer. After I faked my death, I got the corpse out and shot it in the head twice, then threw it into the water.”

“And that’s why you killed the coroner?” Montoya asked. “You didn’t want anything to lead back to you, and the coroner might have noticed that the corpse had been frozen then thawed, or the plastic surgery.”

“Exactly,” Alberto said. “I killed the Gunsmith too – I needed to get rid of him so my sister couldn’t trace the guns back to me.”

“What about everyone else? No offense, but you don’t exactly strike me as a vigilante type.”

“I faked my death because I knew a _war_ was coming,” Alberto told her. “A war between my family, and Maroni’s. So I did what I could to weaken Maroni. I killed the Sullivans’ gang because I heard Maroni had hired them to take out Dent. And I killed Grappa because he was working for Maroni now. I thought he’d betrayed my uncle.”

“Is that why you killed Carla Vitti too?” Montoya asked.

Alberto’s eyes widened, then he regained his composure. “Yes,” he said. “She’d declared war on the Falcone family, and that war would weaken us enough for what’s left of the Maronis to take over. I was going to go after the rest of the Vitti family too, but you caught me.”

“So you were the so-called Mafia Killer this whole time?” Montoya asked. Alberto nodded, so Montoya asked, “Would you be willing to say all of that again on camera?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Rachel was at home, thinking about Vale and Knox and their offer. She picked up her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and called Vale.

The phone rang twice before Vale picked up. “ _I’m guessing you’ve made your decision?_ ” she asked.

“Yeah,” Rachel said. “I want to do the interview. It’ll be an exclusive.”

“ _Great!_ ” Vale said. “ _When do you want to do it?_ ”

“Right now, I don’t know how Maroni’s trial is going to go,” Rachel said. “But we’re probably going to be busy, so doing it then might be difficult. Maybe in two weeks? Things should settle down by then.”

“ _Is Friday the 29 th good?_” Vale asked.

“It should be,” Rachel said. “4 in the afternoon?”

“ _It’s a date,_ ” Vale said. “ _I mean, it’s decided, that’s when we’ll do the interview. Not a date-date, you know…_ ”

“I know,” Rachel laughed. “Besides, wouldn’t a date be kind of awkward if Knox was there too?”

/\\-^|^-/\

“He confessed?” Bennet asked.

“He did,” Montoya confirmed, scrolling through the criminal database on her computer. “It was surprisingly easy. In fact, it was suspiciously easy.” Montoya opened Alberto Falcone’s criminal record.

Bennet read it and whistled. “Seven false confessions. There’s no _way_ we can trust this one.”

“Especially since I checked, and he had alibis for the four earliest killings,” Montoya said. “As far as I can tell, he only started killing _after_ he faked his death.”

“And I saw his reaction when you mentioned Carla Vitti was dead. There’s no way he killed her if he didn’t even know she’d _been_ killed,” Bennet said. “I already figured something was up earlier – I looked at the security footage from when he tried to kill Maroni.” Montoya found the footage on the computer and played the video. “There,” Bennet said. Montoya paused the video as Bennet pointed to the gun in Alberto Falcone’s hand, moments before he was tackled by the guard. “That’s a terrible grip on that gun,” Bennet said. “There’s no way _he’s_ the vigilante who took down a mansion full of armed guards.

“Which means he’s not the Mafia Killer,” Montoya said. “And that means we can’t tie him to _any_ of the murders, even the ones he might have _actually_ committed. The most we can put him away from is one count of attempted murder.”

“So if _he’s_ not the Mafia Killer,” Bennet wondered, “who is?”

/\\-^|^-/\

Sal Maroni knew he was screwed, but if he was going to get convicted he was going to go down fighting. And he didn’t just mean making the prosecution prove he was guilty instead of just pleading guilty himself. No, there were three people Maroni wanted revenge on and he should be able to manage at least one. But for even that to happen, he’d need Vernon Wells to do exactly what he’d been told – and paid – to do.

Vernon Wells was standing by the door when Maroni entered the room, escorted by two cops.

“Give the man some space, boys,” Vernon said. “He’s a convicted felon, not a pop star.” As he said that, he walked out and brushed past Maroni.

Maroni felt something fall into his pocket, and smiled. Vernon Wells had done exactly what he’d been told – and paid – to do.

/\\-^|^-/\

Catwoman found Batman on the same rooftop where she’d asked for his help in the first place. This time, she was the one who snuck up behind him.

“It’s a nice night,” she said.

Batman turned around. “It is.” He was smiling, Selina noticed. “To what do I owe your company this time?” he asked.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “For… you know, helping me out with the ARG. Which I still can’t believe is a real organization and not just a conspiracy theory. Does that mean something actually went down at Legends Plaza in 1986?”

Batman shrugged.

Catwoman got back on track. “Anyway, I kind of owe you one now, which is _not_ something I’m used to, but… you could have looked at my file. You could have found out who I was, and you didn’t even though you’d have had an advantage over me if you knew. So… why?”

“I still want to bring you in,” Batman assured her. “But even if I knew your name I’d still need evidence to prove it was you, and knowing you, you’d be careful not to leave anything lying around. After what happened with the ARG, you’ve probably started sweeping wherever you live for bugs, so _that’s_ not an option. Knowing your name wouldn’t _really_ be that much of an advantage. But one of these days, I’m going to apprehend you _while_ you’re committing a crime.”

“Yeah, not going to happen,” Catwoman said, smiling smugly. “But I appreciate the sentiment. And I’m glad you didn’t try to find out who I was. So… thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Batman said.

“See you around, Bats.” Catwoman smiled, turned around, and raced off over the rooftops.

/\\-^|^-/\

Maroni’s trial was one he was going to lose from the start. The prosecution had the better opening statement, Floyd Lawton’s testimony had been backed up by documents of the transaction between him and Maroni, when Maroni’s lawyer tried to question Lawton’s integrity it backfired spectacularly – Dent focused on the fact that Lawton had only agreed to testify so he’d still have the chance to be a father to his daughter, and if he was that committed to being a good parent to his daughter, and all of a sudden the jury saw Lawton as an anti-hero at worst.

Maroni had to admit, they had a point.

It got even worse when they called Bruce Wayne to the stand, and he testified that he heard Maroni trying to convince Richard Daniels to launder money for Maroni, and that it was Bruce who convinced Daniels to decline that offer – days before his death.

It was near the end of the trial that Maroni got his chance.

“Mr Maroni,” Dent said, “are you now, or have you ever been, associated with La Cosa Nostra?”

“Naturally,” Maroni replied. “Ever since my father gave me my first job.”

“Okay,” Dent said, surprised at Maroni’s frankness. “Thank you for your honesty. Next question: did you approach Richard Daniels to get him to launder money for you using his position on the board of the Bank of Gotham?”

“I did,” Maroni said.

“So do you have anything – anything at all – to convince us that you’re innocent?” Harvey asked.

“Actually,” Maroni said, “I have something. Right…” he reached into his jacket. “Here!” He pulled out a glass bottle and twisted the cap off, then threw the contents at Dent. The liquid hit Dent on the left side of his face.

Dent fell to the ground, screaming and holding his face.

“Take that, you suit!” Maroni taunted as he was restrained by police. “That’s hydrochloric acid! That stuff can eat through concrete! I can’t wait to see what it does to your _face_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the mystery of the Mafia Killer solved? Well, wait and see.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	24. Fear the Reaper

Harvey opened his eyes.

He was looking up at white ceiling tiles. He brought his hand up to the left side of his face and felt bandages. “What the hell?” he asked.

“The doctors had to leave the bandages on while your face healed,” Bruce said. Harvey turned his head to see his boyfriend sitting in a chair on the right side of the hospital bed. Rachel and Sam were next to him.

“How bad?” Harvey asked.

“There are second-degree burns all over the left side of your face,” Rachel said. “Your eye ended up fine, but the rest…”

Harvey grimaced. “So much for my rugged good looks.”

“I dunno,” Bruce said. “Scars can be sexy.”

“Heh,” Harvey laughed.

“He has a point,” Sam said. “You could get a Jonah Hex vibe going.”

“You think I should dress like a Confederate cowboy?”

“… I mean, maybe leave out the Confederate part,” Sam said. “But yeah, the cowboy thing works.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Felice Vitti, Lucia Vitti, Romano Vitti, and Gaetano Vitti were now the last four Vittis. Their war had started when Falcone had killed Johnny Vitti, and now that Carla was dead too, they had no reason to go easy on the Falcones.

Felice Vitti was the don of the Vitti crime family. He’d lost his son and then his wife because of Falcone, and he had no intention of losing daughter, or his two grandsons, Lucia’s boys.

When the staff at the mansion had called to tell him that Carla had been murdered, he’d screamed in pain and rage. He’d wept for days - before, during, and after the funeral. Now he stared at a map of the city through bloodshot eyes. The territories of each crime family were given a different colour.

“With the Gigantes, Falcone owns a third of the city,” Felice said, “but the rest of it? The Hasigawas have a quarter, so do the Maronis. The last sixth is us, the Zuccos, the Thornes, and whoever ends up in charge of the Russians – probably Knyazev.”

“We’ve already got the Zuccos and Thornes on our side,” Lucia said, “and I’ve been talking to the Hasigawas about joining the war on our side. The Maronis are biding their time until one or both sides in the war are dead, so we can’t trust them. And Knyazev’s always been out for himself.”

“So that’s just over a quarter of the city against a third of it,” Romano said. “I reckon we shouldn’t try anything big right now. Bring Falcone down with small attacks, ones we stand a good chance of pulling off. The death of a thousand cuts.”

Gaetano scoffed. “That’s just gonna give him more time to get ready to wipe us off the map. No, I think we should ambush him. Either we kill him and we win, or we still do enough damage to make him come to us and try to end this war. And then we can kill him anyway.”

Felice looked at Gaetano approvingly. “I like that plan. Lucia, what do you think?”

“The sooner Falcone is dead, the better,” Lucia said.

/\\-^|^-/\

Rupert Thorne was safe in the complex that he’d made into his home. There was a robust security system, a swarm of armed guards, and unbreakable locks. He could sit back in his recliner, drink some beer, and watch a baseball game, secure in the knowledge that nobody could get to him.

A guard burst through the door.

“Sir!” he said. “You _need_ to get to the panic room.”

Thorne turned off the TV and got out of his recliner, frowning at the interruption. “What is it?” he grumbled.

“Someone’s breached the perimeter. Tall, wear a cloak and a hood, seem to have armour since our bullets aren’t killing them. And this is the part you won’t like: they’re killing everyone with a double headshot.”

Thorne blanched. “.22 calibre?”

The guard nodded.

“Lock the door!” Thorne ordered, racing to the electric fireplace. While the guard did as ordered, he reached behind the mantle and flipped a switch. A panel in the wall next to the fireplace slid aside, revealing a small, blank room. Once Thorne stepped inside and closed the door, it could only be opened from the inside.

There was a rattle of bullets and splintering wood, and the guard fell to the ground, bleeding.

It seemed the Mafia Killer – no, that’s the _last_ thing Thorne wanted to call someone who was baying for _his_ blood – had given up on the double headshot and switched tactics. Thorne cursed, but when a gloved hand punched a hole in the door and opened it from the inside, he didn’t run into the panic room.

He froze in fear.

The Mafia Killer stepped into the room and looked at Thorne. He doffed his cloak and hood, and Thorne could see who he really was.

“No…”

The Mafia Killer was wearing black body armour, with an arsenal of shotguns and machine guns attached. Grenades too. But that wasn’t what gave him away. He’d covered his face with a balaclava that had a white skull painted on it. The skull covered his whole head. His eyes were hidden by tinted lenses, making them look like empty eyeholes.

The Mafia Killer was a man Thorne had thought long dead. The Mafia Killer was the Reaper.

Thorne could feel the Reaper’s glare as the vigilante approached him.

“No!” Thorne said. “I killed you!”

The Reaper was inches away from him by now. He leaned in closer and hissed, “You should have done it twice.”

Then he took out a shotgun and aimed it at Thorne’s head.

He fired. Twice.

/\\-^|^-/\

Harvey was awake again.

“Hey,” Rachel said.

“Hey,” Harvey replied.

“So… there’s good news and there’s bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“We won the case,” Rachel said, smiling. “It’s all thanks to you, really. Everything you – and Sam – did made it possible for us to put Maroni in prison for good.”

“And the bad news?”

“Pretty much everything else that’s going on.”

Harvey raised his eyebrow. Then he realized Rachel couldn’t see it. “I’m raising my eyebrow under these bandages. Wait. Do I still have a left eyebrow _to_ raise?”

Rachel shrugged. “No idea. Anyway… things are bad. There’s a war going on – turns out, Carmine Falcone had Johnny Vitti killed, someone told Maroni, who told Carla Vitti, who declared war on Carmine and killed Mario Falcone, then was killed by the Mafia Killer. Now the rest of the Vittis are making an alliance with the Zuccos and the Hasigawas against the Falcones, the Gigantes are siding _with_ the Falcones, and the remaining Maronis are waiting to see who wins.”

“What about the Thornes?”

Rachel looked down. "Most of them are dead.”

Harvey sat bolt upright. “What!?”

“It was the Mafia Killer. He killed them all. Harvey… there’s security footage forensics pulled from Rupert Thorne’s complex. You remember that vigilante who was around a few years ago? Killed a bunch of people, then disappeared after taking on Thorne and Maroni?”

“The Reaper, yeah.”

“I haven’t seen the footage,” Rachel said, “but there’s a rumour that _he’s_ the Mafia Killer.”

Harvey swore. Then he swore again, louder. And a third time, which got the attention of a patient in a neighbouring room, who swore back.

Rachel reached towards Harvey. “Harvey, calm down.”

“Calm down!? You just told me that while I’m trapped here, Gotham’s being torn apart by a mob war and massacred by a crazed vigilante! And this is _after_ Maroni somehow managed to get a bottle of acid into the courtroom _and_ literally _the day before_ the trial I had found out that-” He stopped.

“What?” Rachel asked. “What did you find out, Harvey?”

Harvey laid back down. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

/\\-^|^-/\

 “Hey,” Bruce said, walking into Harvey’s room and sitting down in the chair.

“Hey,” Harvey replied. “Let me guess: Rachel told you?”

Bruce nodded. “Look… I know what it’s like to place a lot of faith in the system and start questioning it when it suddenly lets you down. So… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Harvey said. “Hey, does Rachel know?”

“You mean about Batman?” Bruce shook his head. “I’m going to tell her, eventually. But I only told _you_ because I was ready.”

“Right. Just… I almost let slip something you told me after you let me in on your secret.”

“About the ARG?” Bruce guessed.

“Right,” Harvey said. “I still can’t believe they’re real. Does that mean the 1986 bombings were real too?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said. “But if Noah Kuttler _was_ an ARG operative like he claimed, then they probably were.”

“See, that’s…” Harvey sighed. “I always thought that the government, the system, that it was all ultimately a force for good. That sometimes we might need help from someone like you to fix it, but overall the system works. Heh. Some system.”

Bruce was silent. There really wasn’t anything he could say to that.

/\\-^|^-/\

A few hours later, when Bruce and Rachel had gone home, Harvey had another visitor. Someone in a nurse’s uniform walked in by the door, closed the door, propped up a chair against it, and threw a duffel bag down on the floor. Harvey raised his head and saw a man leaning down to open the duffel bag, then put some sort of black and white balaclava on his head.

The man turned around and Harvey scooted back on the bed, shocked to see the Reaper staring at him.

“It _is_ you,” he said. “Killing all those people.”

The Reaper started getting changed, from the nurse’s uniform into his body armour. “Yes. They were criminals. I was finishing the job I’d started.”

“Why now?” Harvey asked.

“Because you had the chance to do it yourself, and you had to work with a _contract killer_ to do it.”

“I needed Lawton’s testimony,” Harvey said. “I needed some sort of evidence to make my case against Maroni – and the GCPD needed evidence if they wanted to get a warrant.”

“You needed to work with the system,” the Reaper summarised. “And look where _that_ got you.”

“My father always said that if we don’t have the system, we might as well make decisions on the flip of a coin.”

“You mean like that one by your bedside?” the Reaper asked.

Harvey turned his head and saw that there _was_ his lucky, two-headed coin on the cabinet next to the bed. He picked it up and turned it over.

And he saw that the other side of the coin was marred. Some of the acid had burned the coin too.

Harvey laughed bitterly. “It’s not a two-headed coin anymore,” he said.

“Vernon Wells. He made a deal with Maroni. When I killed Maroni’s henchmen in the car outside that restaurant? Wells and Maroni were meeting in that restaurant at the time. I saw them.”

“Vernon…” Harvey repeated. “But he was on _our_ side.”

“Looks like he was a traitor. I’m not going to rob you of your revenge,” the Reaper said. “So here’s where I keep some of my weapons.” He put a piece of paper down where the coin had been. “I’ve got other business to attend to here, which will give you a distraction. You can leave this hospital, go to that address, and then do what you want.” He walked out of the room.

Harvey looked at the piece of paper.

He couldn’t become a vigilante. Could he?

No.

He should just crumple the paper up and throw it away.

But why? Shouldn’t he get his revenge?

No! Why was he even _thinking_ that!?

Well, he should at least check the address out. If it really _is_ the Reaper’s armoury he could tell the GCPD about it. It might help them bring the Reaper in.

Harvey grabbed the paper.

/\\-^|^-/\

Carmine Falcone now knew how Rex Calabrase had felt.

His family was going to war with itself, and it was because of Maroni – and whoever recorded Carmine ordering Johnny’s assassination in the first place. That’s why he was on the phone to Liza right now.

“Maroni’s screwed anyway,” he said to Liza, “but whoever sent him that email is still out there. I need you to find them and kill them. Make them pay for this.”

“ _You can count on me_ ,” Liza said.

“Thank you, Liza.”

The limo stopped and Vincent and Louisa got in.

Carmine hung up.

“Vincent, Louisa,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Don’t be,” Vincent said. “This is _your_ fault.”

The driver started the engine again. The limo set off.

“You turned Carla against this family,” Louisa said, “and now that you’ve had her killed, do you think the Vittis will stop with _you_? No, they’re going after all of us.”

“I had nothing to do with Carla’s death,” Carmine said firmly.

“Either way, one of our children is dead, another is in prison,” Vincent said. “That just leaves the three of us and Sofia. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Carmine. There are only four Falcones left.”

“Actually,” Carmine said, “there are six.”

Louisa was about to inquire further, when there was a crash, and the car flipped on its back.

“What the hell!?” Vincent shouted.

The driver was hanging from his seat, only the seatbelt stopping him from falling. His scalp had been cut by a piece of glass, and blood was dripping down his head.

Vincent undid his seatbelt and drew his gun, then opened the door and stepped out of the car.

“Vincent, wait!” Louisa said, doing the same.

From where he was, still in the limo, Carmine saw Vincent aim at someone on the other side of the car. So that’s where the Vittis – and Carmine was almost sure _they_ were behind this – were.

Vincent fired one shot, and was riddled with bullets in return. Louisa managed to fire two shots before the same happened to her.

Carmine looked away as he undid his seatbelt. He dropped out of his seat and opened the panel in the roof to expose a red button. He pressed it, then crawled out the door and away from the ambush.

Once he was a safe distance away, he stood up, hid behind a corner, and looked back once. It was the Vittis, as he’d thought. Five of their men, including Romano, with automatic guns, standing outside a black van. They must have rammed the limo, then waited to shoot anyone who came out. They hadn’t seen him, so two of them approached the limo to find and kill him.

Romano looked up and saw Carmine. A look of rage on his face was slowly replaced with one of realization. He screamed at his men to get away from the limo.

And then the countdown that the button had started reached zero and the limo exploded, killing two of the Vittis’ henchmen and dazing Romano and the other two henchmen.

Carmine ran away as fast as he could.

/\\-^|^-/\

Harvey Dent had followed the address to this alley in the Industrial Quarter. He had no idea where to look next.

“The bunkers,” he remembered. Bruce had told him about those. And if _Batman_ was using the bunkers, and hadn’t discovered all of them… “Then the Reaper might have one of his own.”

He ran his hands along the left alley wall until he felt it. A brick that was set a bit deeper than the rest. Then another one, and another one – all in the rectangular shape of a door. And in the middle, one that jutted out.

Harvey pushed that one. There was a click of machinery, though he didn’t hear it because to humans it was inaudible. But now there was a door – somewhere under the alley – that had been unlocked.

He lifted up a manhole cover and went down inside the sewer. The tunnel was actually dry – all the sewage was in the smaller pipes by his feet. There shouldn’t be any in the tunnel itself unless one of the pipes was leaking.

Harvey walked forwards for three paces, running his hands along the walls, before he felt the indentation – this time, the bricks were jutting _out_ of the wall. He curled his fingers around the edge and pulled.

The metal door with a layer of thin bricks on top of it swung open and Harvey stepped into a bunker lit by fluorescent lights and filled with military weaponry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, the Reaper was the villain of Batman: Year Two. In that comic, he was Gotham's first masked vigilante and differed from Batman in that he was far more willing to use lethal force. You might recall that Carmine mentioned him in one of the first few chapters of this story. If you're familiar with the comic, you'll know who the Reaper is, but if you're not then I advise you not to look it up so you don't miss the reveal.  
> There are two more chapters in this story. Chapter 25 will be up on Sunday, and Chapter 26... originally I planned to post it on Monday, but I'm leaning towards posting it next Thursday now so that there's more of a gap. Until then, what do you think of my version of Harvey's origin?


	25. Traps for Troubadours

**Eighteen Years Ago**

“Mr Madison,” Falcone greeted the record label owner and part-time drug trafficker. “Please, have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Norman Madison sat down in the chair on the other side of Falcone’s desk. “I need money.”

Falcone nodded. “And you want me to give it to you. You know my rules, Mr Madison. I don’t give out loans without something in return.”

Madison’s eyes shifted left and right. “Maybe this time you can make an exception?”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I can prove that you paid me to smuggle drugs for you.”

Falcone stared at Madison silently.

Madison gulped.

Finally, Falcone said, “I remember your request. But for now, I have other business to attend to.”

Madison’s face flooded with relief and he stood up. “Thank you, Don Falcone.” He bowed, then walked out.

The relief had been a mistake.

**The Present Day**

Bruce figured that after killing Rupert Thorne, the Reaper’s next target would be the new Don of the Thorne crime family. It only took a few minutes to find out where Andy Thorne was – the twenty-one-year-old owned a hotel with a rooftop Jacuzzi.

Batman stood on the rooftop of a building adjacent to the hotel. The latter towered over its surroundings, so Batman figured that the best way to reach the top would be to use the grappling gun.

He turned the safety off, turned the dials to the correct settings – eight, no, nine storeys – got down on one knee, aimed at the top of the rooftop bar, and fired. The hook flew forwards, opening as it soared through the air, then hit the target and closed around it. The motor kicked in, reeling the rope in and pulling Batman up.

He wasn’t just being pulled up, though – he was getting closer and closer to the wall as well – so he stuck his feet out forwards to brace for impact. Once his feet touched the wall, he walked up it as the grappling gun continued to pull him up.

Eventually, he reached the bar’s ceiling, removed the grappling hook, set the grappling gun down behind him, and stood ominously, overlooking the rooftop.

“Andy Thorne!” he said. Andy looked up and saw him, then screamed and scrambled out of the hot tub. “Come with me if you want to live!” Batman said.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work. Batman leapt down from the ceiling onto the rooftop, and threw a bolas at the escaping mob boss. It wrapped around Andy’s feet, and he fell to the ground. Batman strode towards him, fighting off the guards – they had guns, but in this crowd? They couldn’t risk hitting one of their own. Or somebody _else’s_ own, there was enough of a mob war going on as it was. So instead they opted for fighting Batman in close quarters.

That was their mistake. When one tried to hit Batman with a haymaker, Batman just sidestepped out of the way, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and twisted. While he did that, he also kicked the attacker’s legs out from under him, forcing his opponent to the ground. Batman was pressed for time, so he just took the guy out by lifting his head up, then slamming it back down to the ground.

He wished he didn’t have to do that – he preferred to avoid causing permanent damage, and who knows what effect head trauma might have.

That kind of thing happened three more times, and meanwhile Andy Thorne tried to crawl away. Eventually, Batman reached him and picked him up. “There is a vigilante after you,” he said, “and unlike _me_ , he doesn’t mind killing. So you need to let me take you somewhere safe.”

“I don’t _need_ to do anything!” Andy protested. “I’m Don Thorne now!”

“Exactly. You’re a target.”

Proving Batman’s point, the Reaper walked up the stairs and onto the rooftop, firing his shotgun.

Andy stared. “So, let me get this straight. It’s _you_ or _that guy_.”

Batman nodded.

Andy gulped. “Right. I’m going with you, then.”

“Now that the Reaper’s here, you’ll need to hide,” Batman said. He took out one of his knives and cut the bolas around Andy’s ankles. Take the fire escape, then get as far away from here as you can. Find a police car and tell them who you are and what happened. They’ll be able to protect you.”

Andy nodded and ran to the fire escape.

That left Batman to deal with the Reaper.

The vigilante in the skull mask was holding a gun to a man’s head.

“Hey!” Batman shouted. The Reaper looked up and Batman lunged towards him. He grabbed the Reaper’s wrist and pulled the gun up, so the shot missed. The Reaper glared at Batman and kicked him back.

“There are civilians here,” Batman said.

“Not for long,” the Reaper replied. It was true – the civilians were already scrambling to leave the roof. So were most of the criminals. While the roof was evacuated, the two masked men stared at each other. Soon the roof was empty.

The Reaper fired.

Batman dodged the first shot, rolling out of the way. He threw a smoke bomb, obscuring the Reaper’s vision.

The Reaper compensated by throwing a grenade in Batman’s general direction.

Batman managed to avoid the explosion, but it did stun him for just a moment.

That moment was enough, as the Reaper stepped back and climbed up to the top of the bar. Now he had the high ground.

The Reaper fired shot after shot at Batman, and even though he dodged the first few, eventually the Reaper started predicting Batman’s movements well enough to get some good shots in. First, to the torso – Batman held back a wince. The armour stopped the bullets, but he’d still have bruises from the impact. Then the Reaper started aiming at Batman’s limbs.

Those shots may have been much harder to make, but they also did more damage. The first time Batman took a bullet to the forearm, he dropped the smoke bomb he’d been about to throw.

Then he took a bullet to the leg and fell to the ground.

The Reaper shot him three more times – twice in the shoulder, where one bullet bounced off the armour and the other did not, and once in his other arm.

“You’re lucky,” the Reaper said, “that I have no interest in killing you.” He walked away, leaving Batman to bleed out on the rooftop.

Bruce reached into his utility belt and took out his phone. He sent a text that said ‘SOS’ followed by his location to Alfred. He knew Alfred wouldn’t waste time – he’d be here as soon as possible. Five to seven minutes at most, but the most probable time was under three minutes.

_We’ll need to bleach the rooftop_ , Bruce thought. _Can’t have anyone taking samples of my blood._

/\\-^|^-/\

Carmine Falcone was in the Gigante mansion when his phone rang. The caller ID said it was Felice. He answered the call.

“Felice.”

“ _Carmine_.”

“You murdered my family.”

“ _So did you,_ ” Felice replied. “ _The difference being that the ones_ you _killed were my family too. But we both still have people left, and I don’t think either of us wants to lose anyone else._ ”

“No,” Carmine agreed. “I don’t.”

“ _So here’s the deal: your nephew Alberto? He’s in jail. However his trial turns out, he’s an easy target right now. So how about you and I meet up at a location of my choosing and come to an agreement, to settle this war once and for all, and if you don’t play along…_ ” Felice imitated the sound of a gunshot. “ _Capiche?_ ”

Carmine grimaced. “Fine. Name the place and time.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Andy Thorne was safe and sound in GCPD custody. Normally, having the newest boss of even a semi-prominent crime family like the Thornes would have been the biggest piece of news in the GCPD headquarters, but this time there was a more pressing concern.

“The double headshot and dropping the firearm make sense,” Bennet said. “He’s making sure his opponents are dead, _and_ if he doesn’t reuse his weapons we can’t track him as easily.”

“You’d think the Reaper would let everyone know he was back,” Gordon pointed out, “unless he was trying to make the mafia paranoid and see if they’d turn on themselves.”

“Whoever he is, the Reaper has been at this for a long time and he gets his guns off the grid,” Montoya said. “Same goes for grenades, and possibly body armour. So he’ll need connections to get everything he needs.”

“Money too,” Yin said. “And some way to cover up his spending.”

“Crimefighting is a high-risk job,” Batman said, “so he’ll need someone to help him patch himself up, _and_ a convenient excuse for frequent absences…” He stopped talking and walked out.

Bullock broke the silence. “Either he just had an idea or he’s decided to leave us to do it ourselves.”

Outside, Bruce was on the phone to Rachel. “Rachel, hi,” he said, “I need to ask you something. About your father.”

Rachel was silent for a moment, then asked, “ _Bruce, what is this about_?”

“I’ll explain everything later,” Bruce promised. “But right now, I need to know: his limp. Did Caspian ever say how he got it?”

“ _I don’t think so…_ ” Rachel said. “ _He mentioned a car hitting him, but it seemed like he was lying_.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said. He hung up and went back into the room. “Judson Caspian is the Reaper,” he announced.

“It _would_ explain how he gets his guns – he owns a munitions company. And he _does_ have his own doctor,” Bullock agreed.

“It’s not just that,” Batman said. “Right after Dent made a deal with Lawton, Caspian showed up at the DA’s office to confront Dent. He started killing again not long after that.”

“That’s not enough to get a warrant,” Montoya pointed out.

“ _He_ can get us more evidence,” Bullock pointed to Batman.

Everyone turned to Batman, who grinned and said, “I’m going to need a body cam.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Felice Vitti had chosen a clearing in the woods outside Gotham, in the middle of the night. When Falcone’s car pulled over by the side of the road that ran through the woods, the Vittis were already waiting in the clearing.

Falcone got out of the car and walked into the clearing.

Felice saw him and smiled. “Carmine,” he greeted. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, Felice,” Carmine said. He greeted each of Felice’s family individually. “Romano. Gaetano. Lucia.”

“Shut up, old man,” Romano said.

“Go to hell,” Lucia told Carmine.

“Murderer!” Gaetano accused Falcone.

Carmine ignored them. “It’s time to end this war,” he said to Felice. “What do you want, in exchange for peace?”

Felice grinned. “It’s simple, Falcone. I want the one you used to kill so many of us. I want the head of the Best Man on my mantle by noon tomorrow. You don’t give me that, and as long as there are Vittis still alive you will not have peace.”

Falcone saw a flashlight flicker on and off between the trees. Nobody else had noticed it.

“I can’t do that,” he told Felice.

“Really?” Felice asked, appalled. “You had your own sister murdered, and your own nephew, and you can’t even give us _one_ of the killers? Or would you rather sacrifice your own son than your pet assassin?”

“I never told Alberto to kill anyone,” Falcone denied. “And I had nothing to do with Carla’s death.”

Felice scoffed in disbelief.

Their exchange was interrupted by the sudden sound of gunfire from outside the clearing.

/\\-^|^-/\

Batman was perched on a rooftop outside Caspian Munitions. He was spying on Caspian using high-powered binoculars and reading Caspian’s lips when he spoke.

Caspian was watching a news broadcast. Batman already knew what was on it: sooner or later, the news anchor would announce that Andy Thorne was being released from custody in six hours.

Yep. There it was.

Caspian tensed as he heard the news, then shot up from his chair and threw his glass of wine at the TV. The glass shattered, and the screen cracked.

Caspian stormed out of his office.

Batman turned on the body cam attached to his badge.

Down on the street below, Caspian stepped out of the building and into his black car. Batman followed him – while Caspian navigated traffic, he navigated the rooftops.

/\\-^|^-/\

The gunfire continued. There was a full-on gunfight going on. If he had to make a guess, Falcone would say that the Vittis’ backup – the Zuccos and the Hasigawas – had run into _his_ backup.

“You know, the thing about Carla,” Falcone spoke over the gunfire, “was that she was smart. She would _never_ have fallen for such an obvious trap.”

Before Felice Vitti could respond, he was perforated by gunfire from two opposite directions. He fell to the ground, bloodied, full of holes, and very much dead.

Falcone smiled grimly. Sofia, Rocco, Vincenzo, and Luigi were here. The Gigantes had come.

Gaetano Vitti drew his gun and tried to shoot back, but Vincenzo shot him first. Gaetano was hit with a hail of bullets from a machine gun.

Luigi burst through the trees, wielding a revolver, and shot Romano in the left knee, then in the stomach.

Lucia aimed her own gun, a semi-automatic, at Luigi. Before she could fire, she was shot in the head by Sofia Gigante.

The last Vitti left alive was Romano, bleeding out on the ground, laying on his back and clutching the entry wound in his stomach. It wasn’t doing much – the blood seeped out through the exit wound in his back.

“You sons of bitches…”

He trailed off.

Rocco Gigante stood over Romano Vitti and aimed his revolver at the younger man’s head, between his eyes. He fired, and Romano was dead.

The sounds of the gunfight outside the clearing started to die down. Rocco noticed this. He radioed his lieutenant. “What’s going on out there?” he asked.

“ _They’re retreating, boss,_ ” the man replied.

“So, the Zuccos and Hasigawas ran away,” Vincenzo said. “At least they’ll know their place now.”

“Their place is the same as any crime family’s,” Falcone countered. “At the top. Every crime family tries to get there. And the Zuccos and Hasigawas? They survived this war with few casualties. There are only three Falcones left – one is me, an old man; another is in prison; and the third is Sofia.” He looked at his niece proudly. “I’m going to step down soon,” he said. “When I have, I want you to take over.”

Sofia’s jaw dropped. “Uncle, I… This is a huge responsibility – I mean, I’m grateful, of course, but…”

“There is nobody more qualified,” Falcone said. “You already have the best claim as a successor, and I think we all know _you’re_ the one who made the Gigantes what they are. Now the Gigante crime family is in a position to become Gotham’s next empire, and _you_ would be the empress.”

“What about you?” Sofia asked.

“It has been so long since I lived,” Falcone said. “I was always trying to keep the peace, as best I could.” He laughed bitterly. “So much for that. But that’s what I’m going to do once I’ve retired. I’m going to try _living_ for a change.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The Reaper lifted the manhole cover and stepped out into the alley. This was one of the many alleys that he used to store his armour and weapons – this was just the one he used most frequently right now.

He noticed something. Around him, obscuring his vision more than the darkness should.

Smoke.

Then a flash and a bang, dazing him.

He blinked away the brightness and tried to regain his footing.

A voice spoke behind him.

“Hello, Judson.”

The Reaper whirled around, drawing a shotgun. He saw Batman, perched on a fire escape above him, and fired.

Batman leapt out of the way of the shot.

“So, you’ve figured out who I am then?” Caspian called. “Congratulations. Not that it will do you much good.” He reached for a grenade. “I spared you the last time because you’re a hero, like me, but if you keep getting in my way…”

“Hold it,” Batman said. “First of all, are you sure you want to use a grenade in close quarters?” Batman emphasized the ‘close quarters’ part by leaping down and giving Caspian a drop kick to the head. Caspian fell to the ground and dropped his gun. “Second, you think _you’re_ a hero?” Caspian started to get back up, so Batman knocked him back down with a haymaker. “Please. You’re just a mass murderer who happens to prefer killing criminals.” He kicked Caspian in the gut. “But what you forget is that criminals are people, and they deserve to live as much as the rest of us do.” Caspian reached for a gun, but Batman grabbed it and wrenched it out of his hands. “You can draw all the guns you want, but at this distance, I’ll disarm you.”

Caspian managed to stand back up, but Batman kicked him in the leg – specifically, the right knee. That was where he’d been injured. Pain shot through Caspian’s injured leg and he crumpled.

Sirens blared in the distance. They were getting closer.

“Not that I’ll need to,” Batman said, reaching towards Caspian’s mask and ripping it off.

Detective Sam Bradley ran into view. “Judson Caspian, put your hands on your head!” he said, aiming at Caspian.

Caspian obeyed. “You don’t have any evidence.”

“Actually, I do,” Batman said. “A body cam that recorded everything. When I give them the footage, they should be able to get a warrant to investigate you.”

**Eighteen Years Ago**

Norman Madison was driving his car when he got the phone call. He picked up the phone with his right hand, keeping his left hand on the wheel.

“This is Norman Madison, CEO of Madison Records,” he said.

“ _Don Falcone sends his regards_ ,” a distorted voice replied.

Madison blanched.

The caller hung up.

Lying flat on her stomach on a grassy field to the side of the road, Liza Ivanova aimed her sniper rifle. When Madison’s car came into her peripheral vision, she pulled the trigger. As the car continued to move forwards, it drove right into the path of the bullet.

A tire burst, and the car spun off the road. It flipped. Once, twice, and finally three times.

Liza took out her revolver and approached the car. It was better to make it look like an accident, but she had to be sure.

She looked inside the wreckage. There was Madison’s limp body, held in the seat by the seatbelt. She touched his neck to check his pulse.

Nothing.

Another job well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now there's one chapter left. All the mysteries are solved at this point - I tried to find a balance between making them subtle enough that the reveal is a surprise and foreshadowing them enough that said reveal doesn't come off as contrived. I hope I succeeded.  
> For Liza, I took inspiration from the character in Season 1 of Gotham but made a lot of changes. She's going to play a role in one of the subplots in the sequel as well.  
> I'll be posting Chapter 26 on Thursday 5th July - that chapter will wrap up the rest of the plot and set up the sequel.


	26. The Face of Revenge

Bruce looked at the security footage from the hospital one more time. He paused it and started pacing back and forth across the room.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. _First_ Judson Caspian shows up impersonating a nurse and walks into Harvey’s room. _Then_ a few minutes later he walks out in the Reaper costume, and _then_ Harvey leaves too. Where did he go?”

Bruce took out his phone and played the voicemail from Harvey. “ _Bruce. It’s Harvey. I’m using a burner phone. I know you’re probably worried about me. Don’t. I’m fine, and I’m going to set some things right. I love you._ ”

Bruce smiled, then put his phone away. His smile disappeared, and he started pacing again. “Set some things right, what does that mean? What’s he going to do?”

“Master Bruce?” Alfred interrupted, entering the room. “You have a visitor. It’s Miss Rachel.”

Rachel stormed into the room. She was holding a newspaper, which she thrust in Bruce’s face. ‘Judson Caspian is the Reaper!’ the headline screamed.

“You call to ask about my jackass of a father, then it turns out he’s a mass-murdering vigilante. I figured there had to be a connection there.” Rachel glowered. “Start. Explaining. Now.”

/\\-^|^-/\

The DA’s office was mostly empty, but Vernon Wells had stayed to catch up on paperwork. That was only the last of his many mistakes.

“Hello, Vernon. We need to talk.”

Vernon Wells spun around. “Dent! Holy moley, what happened to _you_?”

Half of Dent’s face looked the same as ever. The other half was covered in acid burns, as if it was trying to melt off.

Somehow, both of Harvey’s eyes had managed to escape unscathed. Now, he was fixing Vernon with a glare.

“You happened to me,” he said. “Meeting with Maroni? Making a deal with him, and slipping him that bottle during the trial? How could you, Vernon?”

Vernon gulped. “Look, Dent, I’m sorry about that, but-“

“Shut it!” Dent barked. His voice had suddenly become harsher, more guttural.

Vernon obeyed.

Dent took out a coin, the heads side facing Vernon. He looked at the coin absent-mindedly as he moved it between his fingers. “Something I’ve had to learn is that justice is random, more often than not. The flip of a coin.” He turned the coin. The other side of it was scarred. “Are you guilty? Or are you innocent?” He turned to look at Vernon, glaring. “Heads? Or tails?”

Dent drew a gun and aimed at Vernon.

“Um… heads, I guess?” Vernon asked.

“We’ll see,” Dent said. He flipped the coin.

The coin spun through the air. It started falling, still spinning. Dent caught it in his hand, then opened his hand and looked at it. Then he looked at Vernon. “Liar.”

He fired the gun.

/\\-^|^-/\

“The victim is Vernon Wells,” Bennet said. “He was killed at the DA’s office, and there’s no sign of a break-in, which means the killer had access.”

“Shot with a .22 revolver,” Yin said. “There’s no sign of a struggle, but he was facing the killer, so either he was caught by surprise _or_ they knew each other well.”

“Or he was being held at gunpoint and did something to piss the killer off,” Bennet suggested.

“Could be more than one of those,” Yin said. “He was alone in here from quarter past five onwards, and the time of death is ten to seven. That’s a one hour, thirty-five minute window.”

“If there’s no sign of a break-in, that means the killer used a key,” Bennet said. “Doesn’t this place have a computer system that logs each time the door was opened? I’ll check it to narrow down the timeframe.”

“I’ll run down the list of people who _had_ a key, see if any of them had a reason to want Vernon dead or were connected to someone who did,” Yin said. “I’ll cross-reference that with your timeframe to see who had alibis and who didn’t.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“So… you’re Batman,” Rachel said.

“I’m Batman,” Bruce confirmed.

“The ARG is real,” Rachel said.

“They’re real,” Bruce confirmed.

“You already told Harvey both of those things,” Rachel said.

“I did,” Bruce confirmed.

Rachel exhaled. “And now he’s missing, right after Caspian visited him.”

“Yep.”

Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce and Rachel looked up. Neither of them had noticed him come in.

“What is it, Alfred?” Bruce asked.

“Some bad news: Vernon Wells has just been murdered.”

“Vernon?” Rachel said. “He works at the DA’s office.”

“That’s where it happened,” Alfred said. “The police are saying the killer had access to the building.”

“Which means they’ll check the log of when the doors were opened to narrow down the window, then check who has an alibi,” Rachel said. “The people who don’t will be their suspects.” Her eyes widened in realization. “Including Harvey.”

“Harvey?” Bruce asked. “It _can’t_ be him.”

“That doesn’t mean they GCPD won’t consider him as a suspect, especially when they see that he left the hospital after Caspian talked to him.”

“It can’t be him,” Bruce repeated.

“Bruce, did you even _hear_ what he said in that voicemail?” Rachel asked. “He’s going to ‘set some things right,’ do you have any idea how that’ll sound to the cops?”

“It can’t be him!”

Rachel looked at Bruce. She hugged him.

“Anyone but him,” Bruce sobbed. “Harvey’s not a killer.”

/\\-^|^-/\

“How many people have alibis?” Bennet asked.

“Almost all of them,” Yin replied. “There was a party downtown to celebrate their victory over Maroni. During the fifteen-minute window when the killer was in the building, they were all seen there. All but two.” She showed Bennet the photos on her computer.

“Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes. So which one had a motive?”

“I’m trying to determine that, but it’s looking more and more like Dent,” Yin said. “First, there’s the fact that Vernon Wells was one of the suspects for who slipped Maroni the acid. Then you’ve got this.” Yin showed Bennet security footage from a hospital. “This is outside of Dent’s room, a few days ago.” Bennet’s eyes widened when he saw Judson Caspian walk into Dent’s room. Yin sped up the video, then resumed it at normal speed in time to show the Reaper walk out. “And look what happens next,” she said. Bennet watched as Harvey Dent walked out, looked in the direction the Reaper had gone off in, then went the other way. “He hasn’t been seen since.”

“Why was the Reaper even _in_ there?”

“Everyone assumed he’d been looking for a criminal. There was a gangbanger a few rooms away from Harvey who’d been shot in the head with one of Judson’s guns. But it looks like he confronted Dent first.”

“Maybe he told him about Wells,” Bennet said. “And now Dent wants revenge for what happened to him. If he’s killed Wells, who’s next?”

They looked at each other.

“Maroni.”

Then they heard about the break-in.

/\\-^|^-/\

Bruce was listening to the police radio for any information that might help him find Harvey when he heard it. He took off his headphones and turned to Alfred. “There’s been a break-in at Arkham Penitentiary.”

“It could be whoever killed Vernon,” Alfred suggested. “Or the ARG, trying something again.”

Bruce was already getting the suit out of the case. “Either way, I’m going to find out.”

/\\-^|^-/\

Harvey finished setting the bomb in the foundations of Arkham, then left the basement.

For the plan to work, he’d have to get to find Maroni. He walked over to the unconscious guard and woke him up.

“Where’s Maroni being held?” he asked.

“I’m not telling _you_ ,” the guard growled back, straining against the rope he’d been tied up with.

“Okay,” Harvey said. “Protecting a racketeer and mass-murderer. Let’s try this a different way.” Harvey took out a gun and pressed the barrel to the guard’s forehead. With his other hand, he flipped his coin. “I’m going to flip this coin. Heads, you’re innocent.” He turned the coin over so the guard could see the scarred side. “Tails, you’re guilty. Which is it?”

“Heads,” the guard said.

Harvey flipped the coin, then looked at it. “You’re lucky.” He flipped it again. “Your knee isn’t.”

He fired and the guard screamed.

/\\-^|^-/\

Maroni was in his prison cell, reading _The Count of Monte Christo_. The Arkham edition contained an additional foreword, a disclaimer really. ‘The events depicted in this book in no way portray an adequate method of escaping from Arkham Penitentiary. If you wish to leave this correctional facility, we recommend being a model prisoner and paying your debt to society.’

Maroni chuckled, thinking of that. He had to admit, the people running this place had a sense of humour.

His cell door slid open.

Maroni looked up from the book and nearly fell out of his bed. Harvey Dent was in his cell, wearing body armour and aiming a gun at him. Half his face was covered by the shadows.

“Dent! What are you doing here?”

Dent stepped forward.

Maroni had to bite back a scream. Half of Dent’s face was horribly scarred.

It must have shown on Maroni’s face because Dent smirked. “Admiring your handiwork?” Dent asked. “You did this to me. I’m here to make sure justice is done.”

“What, you’re going to pour acid on me?” Maroni asked, his voice wobbling. “Please don’t.”

“Ha! No, I’m going to flip this coin,” Dent said, taking out a silver dollar. “Heads, you live.” He turned the coin over to the scarred side. “Tails, you die.” He aimed at Maroni.

“Harvey, please don’t do this,” somebody pleaded.

Harvey turned around. Maroni caught a glimpse of the new arrival… was that Batman?

“Bruce,” Harvey said. “I didn’t want you to come here… to see me do this.”

“Then don’t do it,” Batman replied. “Come with me, and prove to the GCPD that you didn’t kill Vernon Wells.”

“But I did,” Harvey said. “I killed him just like I’m about to kill Maroni.”

“Why, Harvey?” Bruce asked.

“They! Did this! To me!” Harvey screamed, gesturing at his burnt face. He whirled round to face Maroni again and flipped his coin. He looked at it. “Tails,” he said. His voice was different now, more guttural. He aimed his gun at Maroni.

“Harvey, please,” Bruce begged.

“Harvey’s not here right now,” he growled.

The gun fired.

/\\-^|^-/\

The explosion rocked the foundations of Arkham.

Cell doors opened, and convicts flooded out. The guards tried to make them go back into their cells, and soon the confrontation turned violent.

The Joker cackled as he stepped out of his cell. “Oh, it’s like Christmas come early!” he said. “Watch out Gotham, I’m not done with you yet!” He cackled again, more cold and sinister this time. “I’ve got a _bat_ to _batter_.”

Jonathan Crane left his own cell, near where the explosion had occurred, and picked up some of the glass that had been broken by the explosion. “It’s no scarecrow,” he said to himself absent-mindedly, “and pain’s not _nearly_ as enjoyable to watch as fear, but it’ll do.” He observed the guards trying to put down the riot, looking for the one who would be easiest to get to and to capture.

In the psychiatric ward, a red-haired man was stealing medication from the cabinet. “Alice, now is _not_ the time!” he said. There was nobody in the room with him. He took a bottle of pills that he recognized. He unscrewed the cap and took one pill out, then popped it into his mouth. It would take a few minutes to kick in, then Alice would go away. “Goodbye Alice,” he said. He heard the sound of glass breaking. “Doctor Young,” he breathed. “She could be in trouble.” He picked up a shard of glass from the window _he’d_ broken to get into the room. It cut into his palm, but it would make a good weapon for now.

Those three were only some of the inmates who escaped Arkham during the riot that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm ending on a cliffhanger. I've already started work on the sequel.  
> I've depicted Harvey as a nihilistic vigilante right now, but I'm already hinting at the fact that he has DID. I'm doing it this way, because in the comics, he wasn't depicted as having DID until the Bronze Age.  
> The Joker's still not quite where I want him to be, but the sequel should fix that.  
> I've reimagined Crane as a drug lord. Scarecrow is the name of the drug, not of his persona, and he intentionally made it highly addictive.  
> I've also reimagined the Mad Hatter. My version of the character is not a sexual predator in any way - I'm not willing to write about that kind of thing. Instead he's a gangster. That part I'd decided upon before I remembered that he was canonically schizophrenic - that's an aspect of his character I decided to include because the sequel was already going to deal with Bruce and Harvey's mental health.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this story. I want to thank all of my readers, and ask you to let me know what you thought of it in the comments below.


End file.
